Down Will Come Baby
by RobinRocks
Summary: Cradle and all. An alternate timeline in which the tiniest of mistakes can change history. UKUS mpreg epic in five parts.
1. The Sun Is In The Sky: I

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA, LOL.

So there is a _lot_ of mpreg floating about in the _Hetalia_ section, mostly because… idk, they're nations and it makes you wonder where they come from, I suppose, given that there's so many more males than there are females. Aaaaand America is one of the most common mpreg victims, usually because of his fifty states, whereupon it often goes down like this:

**France:** Why Amérique, I see that you do not, at present, have a metaphorical bun in the oven.

**America:** Oh, yeah, well, I just popped out another of England's hell-spawns last week so right now I'm actually _not_ preggers for once!

**France:** We can soon fix that, mon cher.

(Nine months and one daughter named Louisiana later:)

**Spain:** América! How strange it is to see you not impregnated with some randy advantage-taking European bastard's child! I shall be glad to assist you at this difficult time—

**England:** Back of the queue, Romeo.

While America _is_ the victim in this fic, this will not be going down like the above. At all. There's nothing particularly wrong with it but I'm not really into the whole the-fifty-states-are-separate-entities-and-also-his-children thing; and besides, even if I was, it's been done _so_ many times.

Let's try something a little bit different.

**Fair warning about pairings: **Majority UKUS with mild-but-important!FrUK; France, additionally, gets his jollies on with a lot of other nations in the background because that's how France rolls, and there are later elements of background GerIta and (ugh, but it's necessary) RussAme.

**Other bite-sized information:** There's also dubcon and some other general weirdness like all the nations (males and females) being sort-of-hermaphrodites (because you _know_ with AusHun, Hungary tops and Austria carries the child – he seems like he has PMS anyway, right? XD). This first chapter is Fourth of July-ish, hence today's starting date. As in the summary, this is an alternate timeline – so AUish in a weird way in that it's the canon characters in a canon setting where they're personified nations but the world they inhabit is one parallel to the one we know in which history goes rather differently. This is exemplified best, perhaps, by the relationship between France and England in this fic being on such good terms that it's really pretty OOC. In fact, France is so important in this that despite there being rather minor FrUK in comparison to the major UKUS element and, therefore, the significance of America's role in the story, you may have noticed that I chose to use France in the character filter instead of America. Frankly, after some evaluation of what I've already written and what I have yet to write, I noticed that France is actually in it _more_ than America. idek.

DO ENJOY.

I – The Sun is Burning

"Angleterre," France said, uncorking the bottle, "exactly how long has it been since you were in the colonies?"

England shrugged, putting down his fork for a moment to hold out his goblet for a top-up. France was generous and filled it up to the brim, the sway of the ship making the wine slosh against the sides.

"I would say a good many months now," England replied thoughtfully, taking a sip. "It is never my intention to stay gone so long but my duties have been particularly pressing of late. I wish that I did not have to leave America behind but, well… there have always been, ah, issues regarding my bringing him with me. As lonely as it is for him, I believe him to be better off left in the colonies."

France smiled.

"You must be looking forward to seeing him," he said warmly. He gave a sigh. "I for one know that I have missed Canada greatly in the three months that I have been away. Still…" He reached out and patted England's hand. "I do miss my Angleterre, too, when I am apart from him."

"I doubt that, somehow," England said dryly, but he smirked nonetheless. His second mouthful of wine was a much larger one.

"Non, non, but it is true," France implored, laughing. "You do indeed have a very special place in my heart."

"And in your undergarments," England muttered, looking into his goblet very intently.

France smiled and shook his head, going back to his food. At the rate he was going, England was going to be very drunk by the time the meal was finished.

"All in good time, mon cher," he said cheerfully, "if you can still stand."

—

England was not easily roused come morning, huddling under the sheets nursing a hangover; getting dressed, France left him to go up on deck and watch the ship pull neatly into Boston Harbor. The bustle began as the crew and harbour workers began to swarm the ship, unloading goods down gangplanks, and the mooring was well underway by the time France went back to the cabin he and England had shared throughout the five-week journey to drag him out of bed. America and Canada often came down to the harbour to meet them, after all, and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting.

"It is too late to breakfast on the ship," France said conversationally, watching England dress, "and besides, I rather feel like getting off these rotten planks. Shall we breakfast in Boston?"

"I suppose it depends on if America and Canada have come down," England grumbled, doing rather a bad job of lacing his waistcoat up at the back. "My god, France, _why_ did you let me drink last night? My head is pounding."

"You were quite insistent, if I recall, about many things, alcohol notwithstanding," France replied, watching England fumbling with his stay-laces. He paused, hesitating, before remarking further on England's attire. "From here it looks like your girdle is not laced correctly either."

"Oh, bother, I'm making a right pig's ear of it all!" England let his hands drop and looked over his shoulder at France. "Do lace me up properly, won't you? Usually I am capable of doing it without help from servingmen and the like but I cannot seem to get it right this morning at all." He folded his arms crossly as France came to him and began to pull the botched cords on the green girdle loose again. "Blow European fashion. I am all for looking respectable but these lace-up fastenings are becoming extremely tiresome. And as for the girdle... I hardly think I even need one, for I am not some middle-aged politician who has eaten and drank too richly and too well for my entire long life. It is not as though I have, as in their cases, a paunch to poorly hide – and yet they make them in bright patterned silks and velvets and so it becomes fashionable and _I_ must sit in court like some poor corseted woman, barely able to breathe for how tightly I am done up. There have been hot days on which I have been close to fainting."

He was babbling somewhat and France knew it.

"It is not good for the innards, either," the Frenchman agreed mildly, feeding the cords through the correct eyelets. "Well then, you must tell me if it is too tight." He put his hands up under the waistcoat to straighten the girdle before taking the laces and pulling them an inch or so. "Enough?"

England didn't say anything, looking down at the floor.

"Angleterre." France's tone was gentle. "You must tell me if you cannot breathe comfortably."

"It... it is fine," England said after a long pause. "That will do."

It was still rather loose, sitting at his hips instead of winching in his waist the way it was supposed to, but France simply nodded and lashed it with quick, efficient knots. England fidgeted with his cravat as France laced up his waistcoat for him in the same fashion, grumbling to himself again. France gave him an affectionate little peck to the temple when he was done.

"Do you think it is hot?" England asked irritably, pushing him away half-heartedly.

"It is warm for a morning, yes," France replied. "I think it is going to be a hot day. Boston is humid, after all."

"And here we are, piling on the layers." England straightened and reached for his cream silk morning coat, pulling it on over his white-and-gold waistcoat. He tugged the collar straight, regarding his appearance with some chagrin in the mirror. "This is why humans do not live very long, you know."

"Oh, what care you for humans?" France sighed, wrapping his arms around England from behind. "I do not think you would be terribly upset if they all put themselves into early graves because of their clothing."

"Hush now, walls have ears," England muttered. He unwound France from himself, feeling him inevitably beginning to grind against him. "And no more of that, if you please."

France simply grinned.

"Ah, because we are in the colonies now," he said, "and only America will suffice. Very well, mon cher." He lifted England's hand and kissed his knuckles. "I will restrain myself until our next European rendezvous."

"How very kind of you." England reached back and fixed the blue ribbon in France's hair. "Shall we go, then? I want to get the hell out of this God-awful cabin."

"Of course," France said gracefully, and he strode to open the door. "After you, naturally."

England eyed him suspiciously.

"You're going to slap my arse," he said flatly. "I know you are."

France smiled angelically at him.

"Only if you allow me."

—

Only Canada was waiting at the dockside. France ran to him and embraced him, Canada hugging him back and chattering to him in excitable French. England approached and, knowing that Canada spoke little English, inquired in French where America was.

Canada looked at him icily, the smile visibly draining off his face.

"He did not feel up to coming all the way down here," he bit out. "It is understandable."

"Why, cherie, is dear Amérique unwell?" France asked, holding Canada at arm's length.

Canada looked from France to England and then back again.

"Ah," he said, "I see he has not been entirely forthcoming in his letters to you. Well, it is not my place to say."

Losing his patience – for he never had much of it with Canada – England seized the boy's arm.

"If America is unwell, then I demand that you tell me so!" he snapped.

Canada looked away, trying to tug his arm free. England shook him.

"_Canada_!"

"Angleterre, restrain yourself," France said frostily, taking England's wrist and removing his hand. "Shouting will solve nothing. Perhaps Amérique has asked Canada to hold his tongue."

England snatched his hand back and glared at Canada, who stood his ground for the barest of moments before ducking behind France, white-faced. Exhaling, England turned to look at France, who in turn appeared to be irritated with him.

"I am afraid breakfast will have to be postponed," he said flatly. "I must go to America at once. Perhaps you will join me on the morrow?"

He spoke only to France, not so much as glancing in Canada's direction. The invitation was not directed at him and both he and France knew it. France closed his eyes for a moment.

"Very well," he conceded, "since we have had a pleasant journey in each other's company and I would hate to end it on a sour note. Breakfast on the morrow it is. I shall be glad to inquire after Amérique's health."

England nodded and turned away, finding the cab onto which his boxes were being loaded and starting towards it without another word, worried and distracted. _Damn_ Canada – lately he had become very obtuse and it didn't help that France always defended him...

The ride back to the house was a short one, for England had always preferred proximity to the harbour for the ease of his frequent coming and going, but it still went much too slowly for his liking, the carriage rattling back and forth as the horses stalled, the wheels seeming to struggle on every last pebble. England fidgeted; he hated cabs and rode them only out of sheer need for travel, and moreover he was desperate to be there and already much too hot in all these layers. His silken morning coat was off and discarded barely halfway through the journey, and he lay slumped against his seat, collar open, fanning himself with the morning paper while he fixedly aimed his thoughts elsewhere, someplace airy and open, salt and high seas, when they finally lurched into the yard of the country house on the very outskirts of Boston. Throwing open the door, he scrambled down and ran across the yard, gravel crunching and frothing under his feet as he darted between people already scurrying to and fro with boxes, grooms who had come down to attend to the horses, maids who had come out to acknowledge his arrival. He was treated like an ambassador with all the perks and all the old money, but nonetheless tried his utmost not act like one. He wasn't much in the way of humans and didn't like being surrounded by them at all times, even if they were servants; he kept them on only to run the house in his prolonged absences and, more importantly, to look after America. He considered them the servants of the king and of the country, having been assigned to attend on him – but not _his_ servants, nonetheless. By now they all knew that he was civil to them out of mere necessity and, as such, he was not questioned or pursued as he ran past them all into the house.

He went straight for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, thinking that America must be bedridden or the like to have not come down to the harbour this morning. He _loved_ Boston Harbour, if only because he was good at persuading England to buy him food there, fresh catches of lobster and shellfish. He wondered if any of the household servants had sent for the doctor, worried that America might be gravely ill. He hadn't been terribly sick in a great many decades but it had taken him several weeks to recover from one bout as a child, England fretting at his bedside the entire time. His health had never been exactly top-notch.

He checked America's own bedroom first, finding it empty, before going down the hall to the much larger master bedroom (which America more often than not shared with him), opening the door to find the room warm and dark, the curtains still drawn. America was curled up in the middle of the big four-poster bed, still fast asleep. He didn't look ill, England noted – just rather tired. Perhaps he had feigned illness to Canada for want of a lie-in?

Relieved, England crossed the room and went to the curtains, pulling them back to let the mid-morning light spill in. Glancing to America, England noticed with amusement that the teenager's brow furrowed deeply before he pulled the covers over his head a moment later. He went to the bed and sat on the edge of it, prodding at America through the sheets.

"Go _away_," America moaned irritably; which was ironic, for England himself had said exactly the same thing to France barely two hours ago, albeit with rather more vehemence (fuelled by a devil of a headache which had, thankfully, finally subsided).

"But I have only just arrived," England said gently, undoing his stay-laces and pulling off his girdle. He slung it onto the floor, not thinking there would be much need for being so pathetically, pretentiously primped today. "Surely you cannot want me to leave already, America."

There was sudden movement under the covers and then America sat bolt upright within his nest of bedding, his shoulder-length gold hair wild around his face. He still looked half-asleep but his blue eyes lit up when he saw England, throwing open his arms and launching himself at him as best he could.

"England!" he cried happily, squeezing him. "You are home!"

"I am," England agreed, cuddling him back; and at length noticing that there seemed to be a lot more of him than usual around his middle, his whole frame feeling heavier. Frowning, England only let him clutch at him a moment longer before pushing him back to have a proper look at him.

America, who – in his excitement – had apparently forgotten his current physical state, gave a sudden little gasp and grabbed at the bedclothes to cover himself, holding them at his chest as he looked down, away, anywhere, red-faced. It was too late, however, and his blush only served to say that he knew it. Even through his nightgown, his swollen stomach was unmistakeable.

After a moment's stunned hesitation, England tentatively cleared his throat, but no words followed. He didn't know what to say. He simply watched America finally, defeatedly drop the sheets from his shaking fingers and move instead to place his hands on his belly – perhaps protectively.

"Please... do not be angry," he said in a small voice. He finally looked up, his eyes wide and pleading. "It is yours, I swear! I have not... I mean, with anyone else—"

"How long?" England asked hoarsely. "How... how many months along are you?"

"I do not know." America looked very frightened – as though terrified England would suddenly wring his neck. "Perhaps... perhaps about five months..." He shook his head. "I do not know," he said again desperately. "I did not notice until two months ago. I had no symptoms until... well." He looked down at his abdomen, rubbing at it. "Until it became somewhat obvious. At first... I thought that I was merely putting on weight but I seemed to grow larger even when I ate less and then..." He took a deep breath. "I felt it move."

England didn't respond for a long moment and America, too, fell quiet, huddling at the head of the bed with his round belly cradled in his hands. The colour had drained completely out of his face now to leave him white and miserable-looking.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice tiny, his shoulders hunching. "I know you are angry but we... we can give it away if—"

"Oh, my treasure." England reached for him and pulled him close again. "I am not angry with you, of course I'm not." He felt America clutch at him, beginning to cry, and rocked him soothingly. "I am merely taken aback. I thought we had been more careful." He rubbed at America's hair, smoothing it down; he wished he would wear it short the way he had when he was a child. "We used contraceptive measures precisely because I did not want this to happen."

America looked up at him, worrying at his lip. His eyes were wide and wet.

"However," England went on, smiling weakly at him, "it is done and there is no undoing it. Precious thing, of _course_ I am not angry with you. This is not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it is likely me."

America sniffled and England picked up a handful of the sheets to wipe his face with.

"There now, dry your eyes and cease to worry. You shall give the child away only if you want to – otherwise you shall keep it." He gave America a reassuring squeeze. "Do not fret, for I will look after you, I promise."

Barely moments after his face had been mopped dry, America started crying again, this time from sheer relief. England pulled him onto his lap and cuddled him, letting him sob. Ah, how he had missed him, this one thing he loved most in the whole world.

But what a shame. America was very young himself, barely a century and a half old, in the physical body of a boy about fifteen or sixteen; and now that small body carried another life within it, swollen out of his youthful proportions by England's misdeeds. England hesitated, then lifted a hand to gently, gingerly place it on America's abdomen, feeling the globe of new life through his thin cotton nightgown. America smiled through his tears and placed his hand on top of England's, his hand warm.

Ah. What a shame indeed.

* * *

England spent the rest of his day ignoring his work in favour of letting out America's clothes for him, unpicking stitches and putting in additional pleated, buttoned panels along seams so that they could be easily made bigger when the time inevitably came. Some of the maids had already opened out the seams on his clothing previously, which accounted for his being dressed in garments that fitted him tolerably well at the moment. He was fast growing out of them, however; and besides, England found, perhaps out of sheer spite, that he didn't much like the job the maids had done, picking faults in their stitching as he undid it.

He was angry with the household staff, thinking that at least _one_ of the servants in a higher position might have taken the liberty to inform him of America's condition, especially considering that America had been too afraid to mention it in his own letters. As such, England was even sullener and snappier with them than usual and they all began to gradually avoid him more and more as the day wore on.

He wasn't bothered by having to make his own tea, preferring not to have them fawning about him as they had been hired to do, and thought that afternoon for the hundredth time as he repositioned the buttons on a pair of America's breeches if he might get away with dismissing the household help altogether.

America's mood was greatly improved since that morning, delighted by England's presence and company, and he scurried back and forth between the intervals of his regular routine to tell him this or show him that or simply hang around him. His hair pulled back with the customary silk ribbon, he was dressed in an old, worn tunic which still had a little bit of room in it – and he laughed when England grumbled about his own tightly-laced waistcoat, saying that he was glad to have escaped dressing like that for another few months.

"Nonetheless," England said primly, threading his needle, "a gentleman must look his best, America."

America snorted.

"I do not think that I exactly fit into the category of 'gentleman' anymore," he said, lying down on the fur rug and putting his palms gently to his belly. "Not that I did to begin with."

"It is not about fitting into categories. It is about giving the _appearance_ of doing so. This is the society that humans have created."

"Oh, but humans are so boring."

"I quite agree." England reached for the teapot and poured out two fresh cups. "Now come and drink your tea and stop rolling around on the floor. I hardly think it is good for you in your condition."

"Actually, it eases the ache in my back," America replied, but he got up nonetheless and came to join England at the parlour table. He appeared to still be able to move very easily, used to carrying the extra weight and not having to heft and heave himself to get up; although, speaking of his back, England had seen him rub at the small of it a few times to soothe the strain on his muscles.

At least his appetite was the same. He ate all of the biscuits on his own plate before starting on England's, chattering away glibly about a book he had read recently. He seemed happy enough, positively glowing in England's company, but nonetheless England couldn't help but notice that he sat – perhaps unwittingly – with one hand on his stomach the entire time. He was not rubbing at it, his palm merely in place as a sort of absent-minded protective measure—

As though he was afraid that someone might rip it right out of him.

He looked fixedly down at his tea as one of the manservants (grudgingly, it seemed) came into the room to inform England about the condition of one of the horses; out of the corner of his eye, only half-listening, England watched the teenager stirring distractedly at the beverage, seeming to curl up smaller in his seat. It was unlike him, for he was not usually cowed by the presence of people he wasn't familiar with, nations and humans alike. And, in fact, these were the same servants which had been here for years, so it wasn't _even_ that America was simply being shy.

England frowned. Odd. Suspicious.

Familiar.

—

"I missed you," America insisted, wrapping his arms around England's neck. "Sorely I have wished that you were here, especially..." He trailed off, worrying at his bottom lip.

"I know." England kissed his forehead. "I truly am sorry, poppet. Nothing but direst necessity kept me from you, I assure you." He felt America's belly bump against his own as he embraced him properly and sighed into his hair. "Of course, had I but known about this, I might have been yet more inclined to make my excuses—"

"I... I was afraid." America took a deep breath. "I could not bear to tell you, even in writing. I... I know that this will cause... _problems_—"

"None that cannot be fixed," England promised. "This cannot be undone and so we will simply have to make allowances for it."

He picked loose the knot of America's bow and pulled it out, letting his flaxen hair fan brightly over his shoulders. It was the fashion, long hair and wigs in its image, and England stood out for not having adopted it himself. Humans and nations alike in both Europe and the colonies wore their hair in this manner but England had decided centuries ago that long hair simply did not suit him and reasoned that since he suffered the day's fashion, he should not have to suffer the bird's nest of bedraggled, impossible locks that he simply knew he would end up with should he grow his hair out. America and Canada, conversely, had hair more in the way of France's and wore it longer at the Frenchman's (expert) insistence.

"Besides," England went on, stroking America's hair, "you cannot possibly think that you would have been able to hide it forever."

America squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"I did not want to think about it at all," he whispered, his voice tiny and scared.

Feeling a sudden wash of pity, England held him tighter, rubbing at his shoulders. Poor little thing, suddenly faced with the very real truth that a miniature spark of life was growing inside him, dependent on him, and all alone with no-one to tell but his twin. The housestaff only knew, no doubt, because it was physically obvious, America's frame slender everywhere else but for that perfectly-round bump at his middle. He had wanted England's comfort and yet, at the same time, had been terrified of having to tell him.

"It is alright now," England said soothingly. "You have nothing to fear—"

America leaned up suddenly and kissed him.

"I missed you," he said against his mouth. "Make love to me, England. I missed you so much and cannot stand it a moment longer."

"Ah." England squeezed America's arms. "I do not know if that would be entirely—"

"Is the damage not done?" America began to mouth along his jawline. "Or do I simply disgust you like this?"

"Of course not, treasure." England was stunned at his vehemence and stroked at his cheek to quieten him. "You are always beautiful."

"Then make love to me," America insisted quietly. He clung tighter still, nuzzling his face against England's neck, clearly with little intention of letting go.

England understood. It wasn't that he wanted lovemaking itself. It was simply that he wanted to feel loved.

It wasn't rough or heady or even particularly passionate; for all his apparent desperation, it was clear that America really just wanted to be held close and assured that England still thought of him as the most precious thing in the world. The kisses were sweet, gentle, and America patiently unlaced England's waistcoat instead of tearing at it frantically to get it off as quickly as possible. England, in turn, was careful with him, feeling that he was far more fragile than before. He was, perhaps, more ridiculously cautious than the occasion called for, for deep down he very much doubted that America's belly was going to burst open if he so much as knocked it, but this was the mood; tender, quiet, experimental, nervous.

America slipped out of his tunic and shucked his stretched breeches and placed his hands at his abdomen shyly, his cheeks pinking, as though holding it out to England for inspection, for approval. England put his hands on top of America's for a moment, feeling the frantic pulse against his thin bones, before sliding them up and over the warm, taut flesh. He couldn't feel any movement below his fingers but nonetheless sensed the thrumming of life, the subtle acknowledgement that their creation rested beneath their hands, beneath America's new and brittle skin.

"_Our baby_," he breathed; but he said it only for America's benefit, to get him to smile.

For all his promises and assurances, of course it wasn't going to be as easy as all that. They weren't human, after all. They had duties, they had attachments, they had rules. There would be consequences for this little mistake.

But there was time enough for that – and he planned to keep it from America as long and as best he could. For now, he simply smiled and touched and held and whispered in the boy's ear that he loved him and America greedily drank it all in.

The position was awkward; America couldn't go long on his back before he began to flounder, gasping for breath, and England realised that his thrusting was pressing the weight against America's ribcage and lungs, crushing the air out of him. Switching the position so that England lay back and America rode hit a brick wall when the teenager couldn't manoeuvre the added bulk around his middle fast or sharp enough to get proper drive and England, in turn, found that he really couldn't lift him on his own hips, practically pinned to the bed by his weight. America groaned out an emphatic _no_ to the half-hearted suggestion that he go on his hands and knees, bemoaning that he was too tired to hold himself up.

On his knees on the mattress, England finally simply pulled America into his lap, making him straddle. America wrapped his arms around England's shoulders, half-sobbing in exhaustion, and England in turn looped his own arms around America's waist to hold him in his lap. The five-month-bump sat between them like a barrier, obvious and obtuse, and England had to do some peculiar and precise mathematical finagling to tilt both of their hips to the perfect angle to allow for the momentum needed. By the time he got it right and was beginning to move again, America barely seemed interested anymore, licking at England's shoulder as though he needed the salt. He kissed it, then rested his chin on it, his whole body loose and limp and relaxed even as England slammed diligently away at him, sudden melancholy in his mood.

"What troubles you, poppet?" England asked, pausing briefly to kiss his neck.

America exhaled through his nose, squirming a bit.

"Nothing," he sighed. "I am simply tired."

"Ah," England sighed into his skin, "I believe... w-we are almost done here..."

"Oh, do not trouble yourself on my account," America said quietly, closing his eyes. "Take as long as you would like. After all, I might as well live up to the names that they call me."

* * *

"A party?" France snorted. "It is unlike you."

"I have my reasons."

"Oh, do tell, my angel."

England was silent for a long moment, chasing a few crumbs distractedly around his plate. They were speaking in the crossover, the umbilical cord between their languages, the first hybrid of Court French and Old English which had, much later, become the Middle English of Chaucer's poetry. It was their own language, dead and forgotten except by them – and France only ever used it when he was buttering England up. It was their pretty little promise, one of their oldest bonds.

It served another purpose that morning, however. France had been defiant and had brought Canada along with him to breakfast, arguing that it hardly put England out, for he was one of those polite and detailed hosts who always assured that there was more than was needed so as to appear properly generous. To that end, England had had no choice but to accept the extra guest, although – as was his custom – he barely said two words to Canada, more or less ignoring him completely as though he wasn't even there. Nonetheless, the table conversation had been in French at France's insistence due to Canada's weak grasp of English compared to America's halfway-decent French (which he had learnt, of course, not from France but from Canada himself, the language being their only way of communicating). America appeared to find this amusing, often confiding gleefully to England that he thought that his twin was too stupid to speak their shared language, but inherently England knew precisely why Canada spoke no English: it was because he refused to learn it.

Still, with breakfast over and America and Canada engaged in each other's company with a book, occasionally squawking at one another in French, France steered the "adult" conversation in the way of a language neither twin could understand at all, implying that the utmost entirety of his attention was on England now.

Frowning, England reached for his fail-safe comfort – his teacup – and sipped distractedly at the dregs of the beverage.

"I... I do not wish for him to be ashamed of it," he said at length. "He has done nothing wrong—"

"Except in the eyes of society."

"_Human_ society," England spat. "But we are not humans. We are different, from the deepest complexities of our bodies to the intricacies of basest desires. We are _nations_, France, and I intend to make them see that this... well, it can only be the promise of great things for the colonies. Does his being pregnant not suggest fertile lands or riches waiting to be unearthed from the soil? Does it not pledge the expansion of our borders onto unclaimed territory, the growth of populations, the success of our venture?" His hands tightened around his teacup. "I am _glad_ that this has happened. I am glad that he has conceived. Perhaps it will show them now that he is worth _something_."

France smiled and shook his head.

"And that is why... the party?" he asked nonchalantly.

England nodded.

"You are correct," he agreed. "It is very unlike me. You know I despise the majority of humans and avoid them if I can – but I am willing to suffer their presence in my home for a night if it will achieve what I am hoping for. Politicians, ambassadors, writers... whoever I can lay my hands on will be there to see him."

"I am invited, I hope."

"Of course you are."

"And Canada?" A touch more frost to this query.

England looked aside.

"If you simply must bring him, then do," he said stiffly.

France sighed.

"Does America know of this?" he asked, glancing at the twins; they were curled up together on the windowsill with the bright book open between them, Canada turning the pages while America's hands rested on his abdomen.

England stole a brief glance at them, too. It was strange that they had exactly the same face, exactly the same build, and yet looked so different. He scowled and looked away again.

"Not yet," he said. "I will inform him when I am done with preparations. I am sure he will be happy with the arrangement. He does so like to be the centre of attention, after all."

France couldn't argue with that, sipping thoughtfully at his coffee.

"I still consider it a strange approach to the situation," he said. "And it _is_ a situation, Angleterre; that you cannot deny." He sighed and shook his head again, his gold curls bouncing around his face. "I had thought that you might have been perhaps a touch more... careful."

"We _were_ careful," England snapped. "We used assurance caps whenever we could—"

"_Whenever you could _is not careful enough, I regret to inform you."

"Shut your trap, you revolting hypocrite," England spat, moodily finishing his tea. "If you—"

"_Angleterre_." France's voice was cool and warning. "Pray clamp your cruel mouth shut."

They both fell silent, tight-lipped. England poured himself some more tea, not because he really wanted it but because it was something to do with his hands. France watched Canada and America; America, who was rather more into roughhousing than his brother, was visibly growing bored and starting to shove at him a little bit, perhaps trying to provoke him into wrestling on the floor with him. Irritated, Canada batted him away, resisting America's attempts to push him off the window seat onto the floor. England, of course, was blissfully (and perhaps deliberately) unaware of America's bullying and seemed rather surprised when France suddenly switched to sharp French, telling the boy off, and he looked up just in time to see America leave Canada alone and curl up to sulk.

"Honestly, you must learn _discipline_," France said crossly, looking back to England. "You let him do whatever he likes – it is no wonder he is such a brat."

"Oh, are _you_ going to call him names now, too?" England spat.

France blinked, confused.

"Names?" he asked. "What names do you mean?"

England scowled.

"Oh, he will not tell me," he said in a low voice. "Last... last night, when we were, ah, reacquainting relations, he suggested that I should not worry about tiring him out in such a manner. He seemed to think our actions fitting of the nature of certain titles which, of late, I can only assume he has been referred to as. When I pressed the matter, he would say no more – in fact, all he would say hence was my name and that he had missed me." He shook his head. "But I am no fool. To all intents and purposes, he is with child out of wedlock. I can perfectly imagine what they call him."

England clenched his fists on the table, refusing to meet France's eyes.

"Slut," he said quietly, angrily. "Whore. Harlot—"

"Stop it, Angleterre," France interrupted firmly.

"I will not have him debased by those terms!" England burst out. "Humans are pathetic, labelling each other as they do, but all is well so long as they keep it to themselves. I _will_ _not_ have them whispering about him on the stairs and in the streets, judging him by those disgusting expressions, summing up his entire worth by the swell of his belly. If I hear anyone make such a remark about _my_ America, make no mistake that I will rip their fucking head off."

France arched an eyebrow at the eruption but said nothing, finishing his coffee quite calmly. In the wake of it, at France's silence, England composed himself again, stretching out his shaking, slender fingers again on the table's surface. He exhaled and, seeing the movement in his peripheral, turned to find America at his shoulder.

"Why are you shouting?" America asked innocently in English, nuzzling his nose into England's hair. He shot a sly look at France. "Is Big Brother France teasing you again?"

France rolled his eyes.

"No, love," England said dryly. "He is, contrarily, being perfectly darling."

France snorted at this, his mouth quirking upwards several degrees at the corners.

"Ah, it is only your angelic tongue which does me so much credit," he replied smoothly. He glanced at America. "His tongue," he confided, "is _saintly_ – and makes martyrs out of lowly men."

America raised his eyebrows marginally before making rather a show of sliding himself into England's lap, perching there with a pretty smile. He took one of England's hands and pressed it to his belly, keeping it there with his own, and rested his head against the crook of England's shoulder, getting thoroughly comfortable. He was very heavy but England would have felt unkind to shift him off, adapting to the weight of him as best he could. France watched the entire charade boredly; America really could be spiteful when the mood took him.

"Angleterre," France said at length, "perhaps you and I should move our discussion into the study."

"Ah, yes, I..." England patted at America's shoulder. "Please let me up, treasure. I cannot lift you."

"_No_," America whined, clutching tighter. "I am comfortable here."

"You may stay here, then," France said coolly, already rising. He called to Canada, who looked up from his book. "Canada, do your best to entertain your brother."

Canada rose obediently, putting the book aside, and came over to the table. America still didn't shift, hanging on around England's neck.

"America, there will be plenty of time for this later," England said a bit desperately. "Come now, allow me up."

America defiantly shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Amérique, come with me," Canada said sweetly, taking America's arm and tugging. "We can go out to... to the bakery! Come, I have coins enough—"

"Leave me alone!" America didn't even bother to use French as he lashed out at his twin. "I want to stay with England!"

He planted his hand against Canada's chest and shoved with all of his considerable strength. Canada stumbled, losing his balance, and, with America's arm still in his grasp, dragged him with him as he fell. America toppled out of England's lap with a shriek and landed heavily in a tangled heap with his twin on the wooden floor.

Heart jolting, England sprang out of his chair and dropped to his knees, roughly pushing Canada out of the way.

"America, are you alright?" he cried, terrified.

America, curled up on the floor with one hand protectively cradling his stomach, gave a small nod; England slipped his hands under his arms and pulled him upright.

"Are you sure?" he pressed, holding America to his chest.

"I am alright," America replied against his shoulder, one arm still clamped around his vulnerable middle. "I protected the baby."

"Good." Relieved, England kissed him on the cheek, then on the forehead. "As long as you are not hurt."

America latched onto him again, this time tighter than before, but England let him, stroking his hair. France gave a disgusted roll of his eyes as he came to help Canada up.

"Angleterre, he is fine," he snapped. "Do not mollycoddle him."

England looked up; but his icy gaze with not fixated on France, settling instead on Canada.

"For God's sake," he seethed, "are you fucking _blind_? What did you think you were playing at, pulling him like that? Can you not see that he is pregnant, you waste of space?"

"_Angleterre!_" France pulled Canada to his feet, looking furious. "Stay that vile tongue of yours."

"Oh, now it is vile?" England bit out. "My tongue is neither vile nor saintly, France – only truthful." His eyes narrowed as he jabbed his finger threateningly in Canada's direction. "Now make yourself useful and get _him_ out of my sight."

Canada, white in the face, said nothing; he retreated behind France, looking near tears.

"You are being unreasonable," France said coldly. "It was an accident – and one which happened only because America was being so awkward—"

"The fact remains that America could have been injured," England snapped, holding America closer still and feeling him curl into his clinch quite happily.

"I am... I am sorry," Canada whispered. "Amérique, I did not mean—"

"Save your apology, Canada," France interrupted coolly, "for you will receive nothing for your trouble." He put his arm around Canada's shoulders. "Come, we shall take our leave. I have run out of patience with dear Angleterre for today." He turned on his heel, steering Canada rather forcefully with him. "Thank you for your hospitality this morn, my angel. I look forward to your little showcase, though I do hope that you will be in a pleasanter mood."

He stalked out without a backwards glance, half-dragging Canada with him. England sighed and rubbed at America's hair, rather cross that the morning had ended on such a sour note. He blamed Canada, naturally, and severely wished that France had not brought him.

America moved against him again, inching yet further into his embrace so that his round belly was cradled between them; England realised, of course, that America had instinctively protected his stomach when he had fallen, not caring for himself as long as the baby inside him remained safe. It was the kind of thing that translated between their subconscious behaviour and that of humans – the kind of thing that made England uneasy when he remembered that despite the undeniable textbook facts, they were not all that much different from humans in a lot of ways.

Physiology aside, most of the distinctions came from mere base instinct.

"You hate Canada," America mumbled. "You either dismiss him or behave horribly to him. He can do nothing by you to earn even a smile."

"I cannot help it," England sighed. "I wish that I could be kinder but I have no room in my heart for anything but contempt for him. It is wicked, I know, but I cannot change it."

America shrugged, exhaling.

"I care not," he said. "It can only mean that you love _me_ more."

"That is true, I suppose."

America smiled.

"I wonder," he went on quietly, "were you to ignore him for long enough... if he would completely disappear."

* * *

"America, lace me up, will you?"

Standing before the mirror, England held out the cords in either hand, his palms sticky. His waistcoat was cream, lavishly embroidered with silk-thread roses and gleaming pearls, and the girdle beneath it a rich, deep red velvet intricately spun with gold. His stay-laces lay loose in his hands, however, for his fingers simply shook too much to tie them himself.

America trotted to him and took the laces to the girdle first, pulling on them with a sharp tug and tying them quickly before England, who had gasped as the thing drew rigid about his waist, could protest that it was too tight; impatient, bouncing on the balls of his feet, America hummed to himself as he grabbed the stay-laces of the waistcoat and hauled them in close as well as though he was fastening up a corset on some powdered and painted lady, knotting them firmly at the small of England's back.

"All done!" he chirped. "Come, England, hurry yourself!"

He scampered away much more lightly than he should have been able to in his state, fetching England's matching red evening jacket. England tugged at his waistcoat a bit, trying to loosen it, already feeling that he couldn't breathe properly. He couldn't budge it an inch and the knots were too tight, too, on the waistcoat to gain much purchase. America was very strong and both of them often forgot it.

"Here, England!"

America returned with his jacket, holding it out for him to put on. He looked so pleased with himself for helping his guardian (..._among other things_) to dress that England hadn't the heart to ask him to redo the lacing; he'd suffer for now, find France later and ask him to do them properly. France knew. He was gentler.

England smiled weakly and slipped into the jacket as America held it, fixing the lace of his cravat over the collar and skewing it in place with an emerald pin before bending briefly to fix one of the jewelled buckles at the knee of his breeches; then, as satisfied as he was likely to be, he turned to America to give him a final once over. America's appearance was far more important tonight. This was for him, after all.

He was glowing, his cornflower-blue eyes glittering and his flaxen hair bright and silky around his face and down his back, neatly tied with a white ribbon. His jacket, falling almost to his knees, was new, specially tailored for the occasion in royal blue silk and buckled at the back instead of the front so as to give him room. His shirt, too, was specially crafted and fitted exactly to his current proportions, gathered and seamed just above the beginning of his bump so that it fell perfectly and flatteringly around his midsection. The white satin, shining under every which flickering light, drew attention to his belly, caressing the shape of it, making the swell of him rich and fruitful.

Certainly he looked every inch the treasure England so often called him; and England had seen treasure in his time, _real_ treasure, the brilliant gold and breathtaking jewels of far-off lands, plundered and crammed into the groaning bellies of pirate ships. Cold riches pried out of crowns did not compare to America, they never had, and it was more obvious now than ever—

And perhaps it was naïve of him but England wanted badly to believe that everyone else would agree.

Smiling, he kissed America on the forehead.

"You are the most exquisite thing I have ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on," he said warmly, "and I have robbed Spain of his hard day's work more times than I can recall."

America shyly looked away, his face colouring.

"I suppose," he replied quietly, "it is only because you did not have to steal me. I am not... sullied by your sin."

England's expression faltered briefly before he teased it back into a smile. America was, of course, _extremely_ sullied by England's sin, his small body quite literally bearing the weight of it.

"Well," he said at length, "at least no-one can take you from me. You are mine by all rights and by all laws."

America didn't say anything, his head bowed, but a moment later he slipped his hand into England's and gave it a shy squeeze. His other hand rubbed absently as his stomach, the satin flashing with the motion. Worrying that he might be getting second thoughts about being paraded in front of the cream of New England's high life like a prize horse or pig, England tugged him towards the door.

"Come on, then, poppet," he coaxed. "Shall we not do our best to turn some eyes green with envy?"

America remained silent, pale in the face, but didn't resist; he followed England down the corridor, his hand clamped in his, and obediently stopped at the head of the house's grand staircase. The party had already begun, the chatter tripping up over the steps as all the important men who ran the colonies drifted between one another, vultures picking clean the bones of gossip and scandal. They were all primped like peacocks, dressed in their best, smoking and drinking in small and specific gaggles. It was almost everything that England hated about humans all in one room, crammed entirely into one ghastly experience; but he took a deep breath and descended the staircase, bringing America with him after a reassuring murmur in his ear.

Far from being white, America had now turned a deep shade of red, staring fixedly at the carpet as he carefully came down the steps. His free hand was clamped to his belly like a barrier, fiercely guarding it even as his shame prevented him from so much as looking up. Silence had fallen across the room as they came down the staircase like royalty, everyone turning to regard them with some level of interest. There was rather a lot of shock about, England realised with chagrin, and did his best to look haughty about the whole thing. It wouldn't do for them _both_ to look like they were ashamed of it; and regardless, it wasn't his intention to publicly humiliate America. He wanted to show him off. He wanted people, Old and New Englanders alike, to rejoice in the promises of his pregnancy.

They stopped at the last step and, after a moment, England felt America trying to duck behind him. He didn't let him, instead pushing him forward a pace and scowling around at the crowded room, daring them – any one of them – to utter a single word against America even under their breath.

There was complete silence. England spotted France (dressed in rich, glossy black studded with flashing, brilliant jewels) and met his gaze briefly before averting it again and putting his hands on America's shoulders.

"Gentlemen," he said firmly, raising his voice a little so that they would all hear him, all understand him. "Let your ridicule and your mockery, your unkind allusions and cruel slurs, die on your tongues tonight. I have brought America before you for one reason –and it is not so that you may judge him by your trivial moral evaluations."

America lifted his head suddenly, appearing bewildered. England gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before sliding his hands deliberately down over the teenager's arms and onto the prominent swell of his abdomen, holding that fragile globe in his grasp. After a long moment, America allowed his own hand to drop, his whole body quivering under England's palms.

Pausing for breath, England's bright gaze met France's again; the Frenchman smiled at him, raising his glass.

"This cannot be appraised in human terms, for it is not trivial," England went on, looking away. He was not talking to France, after all. France knew. He was kinder. "Gentlemen, you are looking at your future."

—

"That was quite the moving speech earlier, Angleterre." Speaking in their old, private language, France wrapped an arm around his waist from behind, propping his chin on England's shoulder. "I admire your guts."

"What choice do I have, really?" England asked blandly, not looking at him. "This cannot be hidden." He sipped at his wine. "In that regard, I thought it better to blow the whole thing out of proportion."

"Ah, well, you have certainly done that," France agreed warmly, glancing at the party from his position over England's shoulder. "This is rather extravagant – but it seems to be going down well, nonetheless."

He nodded towards America – who was much happier now – sitting in the midst of some familiar faces, including the colonies' ambassador to France, Benjamin Franklin, and the Massachusetts and Virginia governors, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, respectively. America had recently developed an odd taste for lemons, England had noticed, and was nibbling on a wedge in place of a beverage as he listened, wide-eyed and attentive, to whatever Franklin was saying to him, visibly more relaxed with his hand under his belly to support it rather than on top of it like a shield.

"Indeed," England said softly, watching America flowering in the company of American-born citizens. "A great many people here seem to have taken the news rather well."

"Is that not what you wanted?"

England nodded.

"It was a mistake," he admitted, "and I ought to have been more careful – but regardless, there is no reason for this to be a bad thing. Many of the greatest discoveries come about purely by accident."

"Well," France murmured, "it is out in the open now, for better or for worse. I do wonder how the news will be received in Europe."

England stiffened briefly before shrugging.

"I do not care," he said fiercely. "What will they do if they do not approve – declare war?"

France gave a snort and finally unwound his arm from England's middle.

"It is quite the opposite that I fear," he murmured. "And you know what I mean."

England gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"All that talk in parliament is rot," he said in a low voice. "Nothing will come of it, you mark my words."

France shrugged.

"It is a matter of money, Angleterre – not of convenience. Even the alliance of _our_ nations has not helped matters much. The fact is that the colonies are expensive to run—"

"It is ridiculous to suggest that the colonies can simply be abandoned by the government and sovereignty for the sake of saving a few pounds," England spat. "There will be an uproar on _both_ sides of the Atlantic." He turned away, folding his arms. "And now, if you please, I will hear no more about it. It is absolute rot."

France rolled his eyes.

"Very well," he conceded, "thought I cannot help but feel that you are avoiding the issue. Despite your hospitality tonight, you do seem to be somewhat grouchier than usual."

"My house is full of humans, you are talking utter nonsense, my stay-laces are intolerably tight," England groused, "and I am not nearly intoxicated enough to pretend that none of these things bother me."

"The last issue can easily be remedied, mon cher," France purred. "Take off your jacket and I shall gladly make you more comfortable." His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Of course, if you are interested in being made _thoroughly_ comfortable, we can move somewhere more private."

"No thank you," England said dryly, shrugging out of his jacket, "though it is _most generous_ of you to offer. I feel utterly assured that you have no ulterior motive other than to guarantee that I am, ah, _thoroughly_ comfortable."

France grinned and nipped at his neck, laughing when he was pushed away, England's palm to his face; shaking his head, he started to tug at the tight knots America had tied at the back of England's waistcoat.

"I notice that you did not bring Canada," England said archly.

France frowned, pausing.

"He would not come," he said coolly. "I do not blame him. Your sharp tongue is rarely the most pleasant thing to be on the receiving end of. Of course, there are exceptions – but they are always in the realm of your tongue doing rather more manual labour than sheer unkindness."

England gave a disgusted snort.

"Must you always be so perverted?" he bit out.

"That depends," France replied coolly, struggling with the stay-laces. "Must _you_ always be such a nasty piece of work when it comes to Canada?"

England scowled.

"I cannot help it."

"Then I, too, cannot help it." France gave a frustrated click of his tongue, pulling at the knots to no avail. "Angleterre, I cannot get this undone. Amérique has tied it much too tightly."

"Then _cut_ me out of it!" England burst out savagely. "Damn it, France, I cannot—"

"Now then, calm yourself," France said firmly, taking him by the shoulders and turning him around. "Find Amérique and ask him to—Angleterre, _stop_ it!" He snatched England's hands to prevent him from hauling desperately at the cords himself and making tangle worse. "It is panicking which leaves you short of breath!"

"I need this off," England insisted vehemently, wrenching himself out of France's grasp. "I need it off, I cannot breathe..."

"Angleterre—" France tried to grab him again. "Angleterre, come _here_—"

England insistently pulled himself out of France's reach, stumbling as he began to desperately haul at the waistcoat, taking the collar in either hand and trying to tear it. He felt that it was growing tighter with every short and restricted gasp of air that he took, pressing his ribs and crushing his lungs, and the thing wouldn't give an inch even though he could feel the stitching pulling, breaking under his fraught strength. His heart pounded frantically, his pulse quickening under his hot skin the more he wrestled with his clothing until he was certain that the blood vessels themselves were shattering under the pressure and the blood was pooling against his flesh in backwards bruises—

"_Angleterre_!" France seized him, forcing him to be still, and held him close for a moment, his hand clamped to the back of his head. "Hush now. Be calm. You know this panicking of yours solves nothing."

England went limp against him, drawing in a difficult, shuddering breath that rattled in his (perceptively) squeezed chest.

"Get it off," he moaned weakly into France's shoulder. "Please, I cannot be in it another moment..."

"Yes, come, come."

France adjusted his grasp on England and manoeuvred him rather forcefully to the door, slipping out with him unnoticed. Out in the corridor, he looked about for the nearest gaudy coat of arms and found one above the decorative mantelpiece at the other side of the hall; he brought England to it, reached up and pulled out one of the swords – a thin thing no good for fighting but highly-polished and sharp.

"Now hold still," he instructed firmly, turning the sword over in his hand and slipping the narrow blade up under all of the lacing at England's back. He turned the sword and gave a small tug, the blade coming cleanly through all of the stay-laces.

England dropped to his knees with a gasp, wrenching the girdle off and sliding his arms through the ruined waistcoat. He tossed them both aside with venom and planted his hands against the wall, panting for breath.

"Better?" France drawled, reaching up to slide the sword back into its proper place.

England simply nodded, rubbing at his ribcage. France frowned at him.

"Angleterre, this does not seem to be getting any better," he said quietly. "And you know as well as I do that it is all false perception. You only felt that you could not breathe when I informed you that I could not get the ties undone. Before that, even if you were uncomfortable, you were fine."

England said nothing, not even meeting France's gaze. France, in turn, averted his own, looking down at the discarded garments with their sliced stay-laces. They were the very highest fashion, finely made and perfectly tailored. For all England's hatred of humans, he nonetheless did his best to fit in with them, copying the way they dressed, the way they behaved, down to the tiniest detail. Of late, it was only his short hair which made him stand out amongst a crowd of them; otherwise he blended in perfectly. Despite the animosity between England and his people, it was obvious that beneath his antipathy, he really did just want to be accepted by them.

He wanted desperately for things to be as they once had.

Sighing, France reached back and smoothed down his hair, tightening his ribbon, before nudging England with his knee.

"Come along, Angleterre," he said. "Compose yourself. We cannot stay out here – and if you wish to further bide your time, at least roughen up your appearance to give the impression that we were engaged in something worthwhile."

"You cut off my clothing," England muttered. "Does that not constitute impression enough?"

"Perhaps." France offered him his hand. "I can ejaculate into your hair, if it would help."

"Oh, you _are_ charming," England said frostily, "for a git." He allowed France to help him up, looking down at himself; he really was only half-dressed now, in only his shirt and cravat. The fact that he was still fully-clothed from the waist down didn't seem to matter in the absence of at least a jacket. "Come," he said briskly, walking away. "Let me find my jacket before you sully my name even more; then I shall seek out America. It is growing late and I daresay he is becoming tired."

France had no choice but to follow him back into the party, grimly amused by how easily England could slip in and out of his mask. It was simply a shame that the cracks in that mask seemed to grow larger every time France saw it fall away. He hoped that the murmurings of discussion from the mainland were indeed 'utter rot', if only for the sake of England's sanity. He didn't know how well England would deal with being forcibly taken away from America – and vice versa – but his hopes weren't high.

England retrieved his scarlet jacket, pulling it on as he walked, and went straight to the little group that had blossomed attentively around America. The three men were still in his company, but their conversation was lower in pitch and between themselves, as America was curled up in his plush seat, his head resting on the arm and his eyes barely open. As a small child, he had been a master of staying up to all hours of the night, but his being pregnant meant that he tired easily, often asleep before nine o' clock. England came to him and crouched in front of his chair to put them roughly on the same level, smiling when America blinked blearily at him.

"Good evening, treasure," he said quietly. "Shall I take you up to bed?"

America gave him a sleepy smile in return and nodded before allowing his eyes to slide closed. England rubbed at his hair and straightened up again.

"Ah," Franklin said warmly, "I daresay the conversation of boring old men has sent him right off." He looked up as France joined them. "There you are, France. I wondered where you had gotten to."

"It is a tragic thing," France replied, grinning, "that I cannot leave dear Angleterre unattended for two minutes." He pinched England's cheek, making him irritably pull his head away with a growl.

Franklin moved up on the small sofa he currently had to himself.

"The both of you, join us for a drink," he insisted, gesturing to the space.

"We would speak with you," Adams said in a low voice, looking between England and France. "It is... important, and perhaps better swallowed with something to take the edge off."

"An excellent idea," France said breezily, looking to England. "What says my lovely better half?"

"I ought to take America to bed first," England replied. "I will join you when he is retired."

Jefferson gave a sage nod.

"Yes," he agreed, "perhaps this might first be discussed out of earshot of the boy. It is merely speculation which fuels our conversation, after all."

England frowned.

"I hope you do not intend to pick my brains, gentlemen," he said coolly. "You may rest assured that I know no more than you do. My government does not concern itself much with my interests or desires, you may be certain."

Adams shook his head.

"That we know," he said sharply. "It is simply that the rumours are beginning to grow persistent and we must be prepared for the cost should they prove to be true."

"The concept of the colonies becoming a self-governing nation is not one that is far-fetched," Franklin added, "and, indeed, is likely the due course of events for the future – but for Great Britain to simply pull back now and cut all military, financial and trading support to the colonies, leaving them without a unified government or parliamentary model, is utterly disparaging. That kind of change is something which oppressed peoples fight for; freedom cannot be forced before its time. The colonies will collapse if they are simply cut off in a bid to save money."

"It sounds preposterous," Jefferson said quietly, "but the result of such a thing would be revolution."

—

England and France had carried America to bed between them, for he was too heavy for England to lift on his own. He stirred as he was gently sat down on the sheets and England started to quickly and efficiently undress him, working at buttons and buckles to unfasten all of his layers.

"France, fetch me his nightgown," England said blandly, deeply invested in dealing with America and not much else.

France got it from the hook and tossed it onto the bed, watching England get the exhausted teenager ready to sleep. There was nothing sexual in the way that he stripped him, instead something far more maternal in his actions, the gentle way he removed his clothing with little mutterings of things like "Good lad" when America drowsily helped by lifting his arms and the like. He hadn't said much on the way upstairs, no doubt mulling anxiously over what Franklin, Jefferson and Adams had said; for what between himself and France seemed to be little more than gossip appeared more credible and worrisome from the mouths of men whose job it was to concern themselves with such things.

It was perfectly understandable that England was terrified that he and America were going to be separated – and especially now.

Tugging down America's nightshirt and adjusting it, England put the finishing touch to his preparations and reached up to pull the ribbon of the boy's golden hair, allowing it to spill over his shoulders, bright and glowing in the flicker of the bedside candle. His legs folded beneath him, America smiled sleepily and put his hands on his stomach, gently tracing the curve of it through his nightgown. England smiled at him in return, tenderly touching his face.

France went to the door, still watching them. America always had had a truly massive amount of power over England; all he had to do was smile prettily and England practically fell at his feet in worship.

"Angleterre," France called gently. "Come. We must go back down. There are things of importance to discuss."

"I know," England replied, not looking at him. "I will be there shortly." Pulling back the covers, he steered America towards the mattress and tucked him in, making sure he was comfortable and kissing him goodnight. "I will be up soon," he promised, "so that you will not be lonely. Goodnight and pleasant dreams, poppet."

America murmured something barely audible as England walked away from the bed; he turned back on hearing it and France grabbed his wrist to hold him where he was.

"Come on," he said, tugging England towards the door. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can be back up here to snuggle up with your little pet."

England smirked at him as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

"Are you jealous, France?" he teased.

France rolled his eyes.

"Of course not."

"Liar." England's smile softened and he leaned up to close the minimal height difference between them and give France a small, chaste kiss on the mouth. "Anyway, thank you for tonight. You always take good care of me, I have to admit."

France pinched his nose.

"Anything for my _petit lapin_."

England shook his head free with a sigh.

"Well," he said, slipping his hand into France's as they descended the stairs, "your _petit lapin_ has been meaning to mention all night that you look wonderful."

* * *

"England!" With an enviable ease given his swelling size, America came scampering nimbly back to him to tug insistently on his arm. "England, there are ships!"

"Ships?" England frowned at him. "Where?"

"Pulling into port," America said urgently. "Right now – I can see them coming into the harbour. Come and look!"

Adjusting his grasp on the paper-wrapped loaf of bread, England allowed America to pull him away from the tailor's window and lead him across the bustling town square to the highest edge of Boston where the small township overlooked the busy harbour. He felt America's small hand hot in his as they stopped to look down at it in silence.

True enough, there were three large brigs all docking in Boston Harbor, their flags fluttering valiantly in the clear breeze. They were Union Jacks – but these were not war-ships, nor were they trading vessels. This was a delivery. The rumours were no longer rumours, the fears no longer mere speculation, and England knew exactly what their cargo was.

The Americans did not, of course – and neither did America himself. Nonetheless, he huddled instinctively closer to England, clutching possessively at his bump of almost seven months.

"I do not want them here," he said rather fiercely. "I do not want what they intend to force upon us."

England hugged him close, watching the first of the ships being securely tied to the dock by a dozen unsuspecting men.

"Neither do I," he replied helplessly.

* * *

OH. MY. First of all, confession time regarding length. So this fic has five "segments", all set in a different period of this alternate version of history (though all connected by the plot!), and originally I just wanted to post the five segments as five chapters BUT... I was defeated by my own deadline (I wanted to post this chapter today because of its 4th of July-ish connotations) and couldn't get it all done in time because I was dumb and only gave myself about a week to write it. This is more or less half (maaaaybe a little more) and it's loooong, I apologise, haha. SO, in a way, I'm actually glad I was beaten out by my deadline because this thing would have ended up being ridiculously long for just one chapter had I managed to get it all done. Instead I'm going to split each segment in half again so that the whole thing will actually have ten "chapters", two each per section under the same title, just to make it easier for me to write AND to make it easier on your eyes!

Speaking of chapter titles, they come (or will come) from the song _The Sun Is Burning_ by The Dubliners.

So, um, yeah, there are some issues going on in here! All will eventually be explained and all are relevant to the plot/character development. I really did want to try some new things with this fic regarding the relationships between the inhuman nations and their citizens. Usually I write England (for example) as having quite a good rapport with his people/leaders/government, but in this story he has a difficult time dealing with humans in general (...and also poor Canada). He has symptoms of claustrophobia, which will be returned to and which also account for his extreme preoccupation with the way he is laced into his clothing. France and Canada also have some stuff going on with them and as for America... I've barely started playing with him yet. :3

Due to the alternate timeline, Franklin, Jefferson and Adams all go by the wrong titles here: Franklin was Minister to France (not ambassador) only _after_ the American Revolution took place, while Jefferson and Adams were _delegates_ of Virginia and Massachusetts, not governors. Additionally, the reason for the revolution is somewhat... reversed. o.O

...Well, lastly, I just have to say that I always end up writing exactly one mpreg fic for each fandom I jump ship to and here is my _Hetalia_ one. Hope you like it so far!

Oh, and to all American readers, Happy 4th July!

...We're not crying. Much. T.T

RobinRocks

xXx

P.S: My sincerest apologies if there are a lot of mistakes. I proof-read but I'm tired and probably missed a boatload of errors despite my best efforts...


	2. The Sun Is In The Sky: II

OMG. This. _Fic_. I always think I have it until control and then... I don't. I just don't. I feel like I'm _infamous_ for this by now but this first segment, at least - the American Revolution-era segment - is going to have to be split into three. I have actually written more of it than is posted here but just _looking_ at it was making my eyes bleed. This lot alone, disregarding what I've cut out, is over 14,000 words so... I think you can understand why, for _your_ sakes, I have decided to make it three parts instead of just two halves. It's... it's just too long. T.T Clearly I need to learn to write less.

The first half of what is here has actually been lying abandoned since _last July_, if you can believe. I stopped and then... just never got back to it. So, this week, despite not having Word and having to resort to Notepad, I decided that enough was enough and I needed to get it wrestled into submission! In Real Time, poor America's pregnancy can be rivalled, I think, only by Bonnie Swanson's of _Family Guy_ fame. o.O (On using Notepad: It gets the job done but in a... sparse manner. The accent on the French for 'America', 'Amérique', therefore disappears about halfway into this chapter. There is no way of putting in in Notepad. It was bad enough that I had to do all the italics afterwards, never mind silly French accents...)

Thanks to: **Halloween Pumpkin, CherryFlamingo, watchulla, worldaccordingtofangirls, TheWonderBunny, ArthurIsAwesome, Vera-sama, yessssss, more please and thank you, AutumnDynasty, Cinimonn, Narroch, MorganaZomg, ilovesmilingfools, pretentious kneecap, OMGitsgreen, sleepy-firebug, Blind Squirrel, Anon-chan, natcat5, Jae Gyu** and **Ends of the Earth**!

The Sun is in the Sky [2/3]

"I see the ships have yet to be unloaded," France mused delicately, helping himself to another cup of tea. "They have been sitting in Boston Harbor for several weeks now, have they not?"

England nodded, rubbing fondly at America's shoulder.

"There has been no express permission on the part of any representative of His Majesty in the colonies to unload the cargo or to distribute it." He frowned. "Of course, this is hardly my area of expertise, but it may simply be due to taxation issues. One must wonder exactly who will be taxed on the... ah, _goods_. Under the circumstances, it would be assumed that, in order for Parliament to avoid hypocrisy, the taxes would indeed have to be implemented upon the British population at home and not, in fact, the colonists." Shaking his head, he reached for his teacup. "Which, of course, is hardly fair either."

France nodded and looked towards America, who was asleep on the sofa with his head resting in England's lap. His pigtail frothed over his shoulder, his hair shining brilliantly in the sunlight, and one of his hands cradled his round belly; he was very pregnant by now, into his eighth month and seeming to grow larger by the day. There had been nothing from the mainland regarding his condition, however, and England – who was certain that the busy-body English and Welsh representatives who had been in attendance at his sham of a party could be relied on to gossip – was beginning to grow a touch worried that the personification of the thirteen British North American Colonies being pregnant appeared to have had no effect upon anyone or anything aside from the town tailor's monthly takings.

"Amérique is exceptionally well-behaved these days," France noted. "Pregnancy must tire him out, non?"

"Ah, well," England said drolly, "children should be seen and not heard, hmm?" He gently brushed some of America's hair away from his face. "...Or perhaps both in Canada's case."

"Angleterre, one of these days I am going to cut out your tongue," France bit out, scowling.

"I daresay you will regret it that very night," England replied archly.

France snorted.

"Do you think I have no-one else to go to? Rest assured that _Espagne_ has something of a wicked way with his tongue – not that you would know."

"I am happy dividing my loyalty between yourself and America, as unusual as such chasteness may be in the case of nations."

"It is why you are unpopular," France agreed. "You must be more willing to give incentive to entice others to make true and deep alliances with you. Human-made political alliances are flimsy and disintegrate at the slightest hint of offence on either part."

England raised his eyebrows.

"Do you think I am stupid enough to pay for friendships with my body? I absolutely _refuse_ to shag around in return for a smile. It is a fool's errand."

"Well," France conceded, "perhaps for _you_, given your conduct and technique."

"If I am so awful, why on Earth do you keep on coming back to me?"

France smiled.

"Because, my little angel," he said, "you are my favourite nonetheless."

England met his gaze briefly before looking away.

"Why are we like this, France?" he asked in a low voice. "I dislike humans for the most part but sometimes I cannot help but feel... that they revile us for not too unfair a reason."

"It is only because we break their rules." France nodded to America again. "For example, a male of our number becoming pregnant. For us, it is normal – our bodies possess both reproductive systems in order to increase our chances of conceiving, given that there are so few of us. To humans, who are physically divided utterly by gender, this is unnatural, and so we are held at arm's length in revulsion. It is not too difficult to understand, Angleterre. Humans despise anything which subverts their established norms. You know this."

"I do," England agreed in a low voice, "and I know that we are different. We are _not_ human, for all that we take on their appearance – and yet... that is exactly my point. We look like them, we speak their languages, we wear their clothes, we mimic their mannerisms, we utterly immerse ourselves in their cultures and mould ourselves into their societies. Even our reproductive system, while "flawed" in its unbiased gender politics, has evolved to ape that of humans, with the child carried to term for nine calendar months and birthed by painful labour. It is no wonder, then, that they judge us by their own understanding. It is all they know and it is... not their fault that we are not like them in the ways that they deem to most matter."

"But humans are cruel in their ways, Angleterre," France replied in a clipped voice. "At best, they mock and ridicule difference. At worst – and this you know – they punish it."

England was silent for a moment. He looked down at America, still sound asleep and bathed in liquid-gold light.

"I will not have America punished for this," he said finally. "I am willing to take the full blame. I am prepared for the brunt."

France gave an ironic smile.

"That is unfortunate," he replied smoothly, "since, by the mere presence of those ships, it would appear that your government has exactly the opposite in mind."

* * *

America shifted for the umpteenth time in his chair and England glanced up at him across the desk.

"Are you alright?" he asked, frowning. "This past hour you have been rather fidgety."

America gave a snort.

"Who would not be bored," he said blandly, "with _this_ to occupy them?" He gestured irritably at his writing exercise, sloppier than usual and blotched with ink. "England, why you think this is necessary I confess I know not. I have been able to read and write for a good many years now – _decades_, even, for you taught me yourself when I was but a child."

"Improvement comes only with practice," England replied blandly. "I shall not have your skills grow stagnant for want of their upkeep." He reached over and tapped at the open book before America. "Now come along."

"But it is simply copying out," America complained, rubbing at his belly with a wince. "It is boring."

"I know," England agreed, "but it is the best way of practicing reading and writing at the same time, both of which are valuable skills in this world – and the better you know them, the better you will fare."

"Fare in what?" America groused. "The trivialities of human society?"

"Yes, well, we will have no talk of that," England replied archly. "It is enough to make one wish to hang themselves. Get on with your work, please, and the sooner you are done, the sooner you might be otherwise engaged in something more interesting."

America grumbled but hunched over his papers again, diligently copying out what was in front of him without even really acknowledging what it said. He continued to shift in his seat, however, grimacing every now and then, and before ten minutes had passed, he had thrown down his pen altogether in frustration, flopping across the desk.

"Good heavens, boy, what on Earth troubles you now?" England asked sharply. "Stop playing the fool."

"The child is exceedingly restless," America replied irritably. "I beg your pardon that it is difficult to concentrate whilst my innards are being kicked at by a restive infant."

He sat back in his chair and placed both hands on his abdomen, meeting England's gaze rather sullenly. He clearly had absolutely no intention of going back to his work, his hands otherwise occupied in running over his swollen stomach in a feeble attempt to pacify the baby squirming inside him. He looked tired and rather grouchy and England didn't feel much like arguing with him.

"Alright," he sighed. "You can do it later, then."

"Tomorrow," America insisted. "I am tired and the child is not. It is not a good combination."

England shrugged, rising. He really wasn't in the mood for conflict over something so pointless.

"As you wish. Let us go and have some tea instead."

"I want a lemon." America took hold of the edge of the desk and hauled himself out of his chair, waiting for the weighty globe at his middle to sway and settle itself before following England around the desk and across the study. "Please," he added as a belated afterthought.

"You can have _half_ a lemon," England replied, holding the door open for him.

"Why only half?" America whined.

"Because you will not eat your dinner otherwise."

America rolled his eyes.

"Yes I will," he replied; and his point was somewhat exemplified by the fact that, at this late stage, he waddled rather than walked, his body piling on the weight and settling on his belly, hips and backside in the protective way of expectant human mothers. "Am I not eating for two as it is?"

"You appear to eat for at least _four_," England said agreeably, "but your appetite is a good thing, I suppose, given the circumstances."

"Exactly," America said. "So I want a _whole_ lemon."

England shook his head at him, smiling defeatedly.

"How is it that you are so able to twist my arm?" he asked, pulling the study door shut behind him.

He paused in the wide, sunlit corridor, the late afternoon light of mid-October streaming in through the long windows. America turned towards him, his head tilted to one side; he was plump and pretty, his form sensually and symmetrically swollen like a ripened fruit. The amber glow caressed his new curves, dipping lovingly into the creases of his tight-stretched clothing.

"Because, England," he said quietly, "you love me more than anything else."

England nodded.

"And yet," he answered, "that reason seems much too simple."

America shrugged his round shoulders.

"What is wrong with simplicity?" he sighed, coming back to England. "Is it not humans who seek complication in order to give something the appearance of value? Why are Shakespeare's love sonnets more praiseworthy than the words of the simplest of farmers? Does 'I love you' not have the same meaning no matter how it is worded?"

"Ah, I would have been so inclined to agree with you had you not just knocked Shakespeare. He is one of the few humans upon which I will bestow merit."

"But am I not right nonetheless?" America pressed. "_Why_ must things be complicated? Why do humans insist on making themselves miserable by their own structure, their own design? Law, money, society, language, nationality, _war_..."

He reached out and took England's hands, pressing them to his belly and holding them there. Beneath his warm palms, England felt the little writhings of life, the tiny kicks and stirrings of their creation from within the safety of America's body. He smiled in spite of himself, following the movements with his fingertips, chasing the baby across the curve it made of America's abdomen.

"I am not stupid," America sighed quietly. "I know that this will not be simple. The humans will not allow it to be so – but is it so wrong of me to want nothing but this?"

"Do you think this is simple, America?" England asked dully. "Me and you standing here feeling our baby kick?"

"Is that not what humans would consider to be a simple pleasure?" America asked crossly.

"Perhaps," England said carefully, "but recall again that we are _not_ human. I know what you mean: you regret that the child will be no sooner born than it will be swaddled in politics. You think it unfair and I suppose you are right – but there are things you do not understand, nonetheless. You do not, for example, consider it wrong that I put you in this... _condition_, as it were, to begin with."

America frowned.

"Well, of course not," he replied. "You did nothing that I did not consent to. After all, I may have the body of a teenager but I am hardly lacking in years as far as human terms are concerned – I have long outlived the lifespan of a man."

"But it is human terms by which we are judged and to them, this has about it all manners of anomalous perversion: You are, in body at least, underage and also unwed, not to mention the homosexual implications of you carrying _my_ child, and then there is the sheer abnormality of your gender with regard to your pregnancy—"

"I hardly think that is anyone's business but my own!" America said hotly, finally pulling away. "I will not be told who I may and may not lie with! I will not be told who I may or may not _ally_ myself with! I do not envy you, England, being the official national personification of Great Britain. I am quite happy to stay a colony for the rest of my life if it keeps humans from ordering me around the way they do you. I _refuse_ to be ruled by them."

England gave a shaky exhale, able to hold America's gaze only a moment longer before glancing at the nearest of the large windows. The house was high up, most of the town of Boston itself obscured but the pale grey drift of the sea visible like a whisper along the horizon. He couldn't see the ships but he knew they were still there, bobbing like corks in the bay.

"I mean it, England," America said, sounding rather more forlorn now that England had turned his back on him; frustrated, pitiful, altogether helpless. "I am not for humans. I do not want to be a nation. I do not want to be used as a cause and as an excuse."

"I know," England replied quietly, not looking at him. "Which is why I must always remain in my most important function. Nations are shields, America – and I am yours."

* * *

He did not understand why America was not the most coveted thing in all the Empire, the crown jewel of all those rich and resplendent spoils, when he was the embodiment of those same fruitful lands; the deep blue of Caribbean trading waters for his eyes, the air-kissed fields of grain for his hair, the scent of new and strange spices on his skin and the sweetness of cocoa butter in his smile and the shape of the world itself in the precious swell of his stomach.

There was contempt for him, of course, and it had always been there; but England just didn't understand it. To him, America was the most perfect and beautiful thing the wide world over.

It was a warm, lazy afternoon with the day having been spent in pleasantries (and made all the more pleasant by the absence of interference by humans, the serving staff keeping themselves anon). England lay stretched out on the couch at the window of the study, America settled comfortably in a loose straddle across his hips; America's hands were at England's forearms while England's own were on America's belly, his thumbs making idle circles against the cotton shift stretched over it. There was no movement beneath his palms, the baby sleeping and still and leaving England with little to occupy his curiosity other than the way America's belly button had popped out and protruded rather noticeably against his clothing. He had barely weeks to go and it showed.

America was very calm and quiet today, awakening that morning with the same serene smile which graced his face now, and England was glad. It made it easier to pretend that they had nothing to worry about, that there were no ships, no orders, no weapons. He returned the smile and America shifted on top of him, getting more comfortable with the clear intent of staying there for a while.

Some minutes later, however, just as England was on the pleasant cusp of drowsiness, there was a sharp knock at the door to the study. America straightened immediately like a spooked rabbit, turning his head in the direction of the door as it cracked open and one of the elusive serving men slinked in rather sheepishly.

"Sir," he said, looking down at the floor rather fixedly, "there is a gentleman come from London to see you. He just docked this morn and says that the matter is, ah, well... rather urgent."

England gave a disgusted roll of his eyes as he carefully propped himself up his elbows.

"Is he here now?" he asked coolly. "In the house, I mean."

"He is in the parlour, sir. Will you see him?"

England sighed.

"I suppose I had better," he muttered. "But do send him in here. I will not be made to dance attendance upon him in my own house."

"Very good, sir. Shall I bring tea?"

"Yes, do – ah, and a lemon wedge."

Sitting up properly, he looked to America as the servant left the room, hoping for a smile of thanks, but America was watching the door worriedly.

"What comes he here for?" he asked. "Is it to do with the ships?"

"I daresay it is," England replied; and, on seeing the frightened look in America's eyes, rushed to press his palm to his cheek to comfort him. "But worry not, poppet – we will soon set him straight and he can take the message back to His Majesty in person."

America smiled weakly at him and England leaned in to kiss him on the cheek; America accepted it with a demure flutter of his lashes and England caught his chin to stop him from lowering his head.

"You have nothing to be ashamed about," he whispered. "Do not let them make you so."

Still holding America's chin, England pulled him into a kiss; he moved his hands to cup the teenager's face, feeling the tenseness ooze out of him to leave him limp and relaxed in his arms. They broke apart briefly and America nuzzled at him, pressing his brow against England's jaw and exhaling against his neck, before their mouths met again and America shifted, his legs opening wider to settle more comfortably across England's lap—

"And here is the slimy, writhing underbelly of your incestuous little nest," came a cold voice from the doorway. "A pleasure as always, I am sure."

America jumped and scrambled backwards off England's knees, wide-eyed and white. England turned his head towards the doorway with an idle and irritated deliberance, his eyes settling on the figure standing there with the serving man hovering behind him. The visitor was a man England had met before on several occasions, a London magistrate by the name of William Mulbury with duties in the colonies; in his late forties with a lined face, sour mouth and mean little eyes, his thin and rickety form always dressed to the precisest edge of current fashion regardless of whether it suited him or not. His over-powdered wig was slightly askew but England didn't have it in him to be secretly amused today, instead regarding the new arrival with an old and intense dislike.

"I do hope I am not interrupting anything," Mulbury went on icily, stepping into the room. "It is simply that the matter to which I must attend – with or without your permission, England – is rather a pressing one and I have much to do."

England's eyes narrowed briefly before he composed himself and rose from the sofa. He hadn't been expecting visitors, human or otherwise, and didn't look his best, only half-dressed in stockings, breeches, a shirt with a loose cravat and a silk indoor jacket thrown over the top of the lot; he knew he was being judged by his lack of waistcoat and girdle, by the dishevelled appearance of his hair, and the realisation made him bristle all the more. He took a deep breath, however, and forced himself to bend into a very small and mean-spirited bow.

"It is no trouble at all, I assure you, Mr Mulbury," he gritted out. He gestured towards one of the large, plush armchairs. "Please, be seated and we shall discuss. The tea will be up shortly."

Mulbury gave a curt nod and sat down, arranging himself very carefully in the chair to give himself the most impressive and imperial presence he could possibly muster; England in turn sat again, smoothing down his shirt almost out of spite, and felt America close in against him once more, practically pressed to his side. The teenager drew his knees up and tucked them beneath him, eying Mulbury in a wary, nervous manner; both hands, of course, were clamped to his belly in his customary way around humans.

Mulbury's eyes went briefly to America, regarding him coldly, before he shifted his meagre attention back to England.

"The boy cannot stay," he said stiffly. "This is a private matter. Send him out of the room."

America shrank in his seat, huddling closer still to England and clutching at his arm.

"No, England," he whined. "I want to stay with you. Is this not about _my_ lands?"

Mulbury looked incensed.

"Whatever you may be in body," he said frostily, "you may rest assured that _nothing_ about these lands is yours, boy. The North American colonies are the property of the British Empire and of His Majesty King George III."

"How strange, then," England replied nonchalantly, fixing his cuff, "that here we are gathered to discuss the unceremonious casting off of the colonies. In light of the reason for your presence here, sir, you will forgive me for refusing to dismiss America. If not his lands as things stand, they will be soon enough should Parliament get its way."

Mulbury looked furious but said nothing; and there was a stiff, unpleasant silence for a long moment, interrupted only by one of the maids bringing in a tray of tea. There was, as requested, a neatly-cut wedge of lemon on a saucer, which England passed to America before turning his attention to the tea as the maid scurried out. He noticed Mulbury eye the lemon in disgust and gave a little smirk.

"Ah, you must forgive him his strange tastes," he said pleasantly as America began to guardedly nibble at the fruit. "His pregnancy has him crave lemons – and it is a good thing that he has developed a taste for sour things, for I daresay that this conversation shall not remain sweet for long."

He put Mulbury's tea down in front of him with a decisive _clack_ and sat back with his own, letting America nestle close to him again.

"Well, then," England sighed through the steam of his teacup, "shall we?"

Mulbury didn't touch his tea, lacing his fingers together over his crossed legs; his expression was a bitter one.

"You know full well that I have never liked this attitude of yours," he said coldly. "Condescending, sarcastic... Your evaluation of your standing and intelligence is an arrogant and haughty one, _England_, but know this: you may think yourself immune to as high a degree as you like but I will _not_ be looked down upon by you, you disgusting creature. For all that you are pampered, you are nonetheless in disgrace and you had better not ever forget it. You are in your position only by the kindness of humans and, were it in _my_ power, make no mistake that you would be locked up and left to rot."

"I see." England sipped delicately at his tea before setting the cup back on its saucer. "Well, be that as it may, let us not forget that, _as_ the "disgusting creature" of your distaste – and you call me such because I am not human, after all – I could easily rend you in twain should you push the boundaries of my temper. We do not die with the ease that humans do and as such I have survived many battlefields with barely a drop of blood lost. Rest assured, Mr Mulbury, that ripping out your throat would be nothing to me."

Mulbury whitened but his fists clenched, shaking on his knees.

"Now you threaten me?" he asked in a low voice.

"Call it what you will; it is all but words until you give me reason to act upon them. Now, if we might turn _our_ words towards the reason for your visit? I see no reason for us to be in each other's presence a moment longer than necessary, sir."

Mulbury still looked livid; but he cleared his throat and gave a stiff nod.

"I trust you are aware that Parliament sees no further commercial interest in the colonies," he said. "Money on the mainland is short and we must tighten our belts in the way of investments. We are pouring too much money into the upkeep of the colonies and military protection of the colonists and not getting enough back; and so it has been decided that, at the end of this month, all financial and military aid to the thirteen American colonies will be cut off. The colonies will have no choice but to declare independence and begin to support themselves either as thirteen separate provinces or as one unified country. Either way, America will no longer be our – or _your_ – responsibility."

"No!" America clutched desperately at England, hanging onto him with all of his strength as though they were about to be separated at this very instant. "No, England, you cannot leave! I do not want to be a nation! I want nothing more than to stay with you! Please do not leave me!"

"Calm down, treasure," England assured him calmly, kissing his forehead. "I am not going anywhere. Here." He reached for the third teacup, empty, and poured another cup of tea, handing it gently to the teenager. "Drink this and settle yourself."

America still looked rather disconcerted, his eyes flickering worriedly to England's as he tentatively took the teacup, but he was quiet.

Mulbury, of course, was not.

"I had quite forgotten that you beasts have selective hearing," he bit out. "This is not your decision, England."

"And for that small mercy, I am glad," England retorted, "for I would not like to put my name to such a poorly-evaluated solution. To all intents and purposes, the American colonists are British citizens; furthermore, as subjects of His Majesty, they are entitled to protection from the British military and Royal Navy. With the situation whittled down to that alone, you cannot think that the Americans will accept this. They have no military of their own, nor the money to fund one, and these are dangerous lands. We built these colonies and our people braved the journey to follow us and call this land home. It is our duty, therefore, to ensure that they are able to live in the peace and safety of the homeland – and if we suddenly withdraw that protection and refuse to even call those people our own anymore, rest assured that the rejection will not be taken lying down."

"Measures have been taken," Mulbury replied. "There are already governors in charge of each state to ensure that there is authority and order – their job will remain largely unchanged. There will be no further taxes imposed upon the colonists by the British Crown, both with and without representation. And as for the military side of things... Well, the ships are in Boston Harbor as we speak. They are Royal Navy-built, a gift to the colonies and an excellent foundation upon which to build a navy of their own; and they are, as you know, loaded with a cargo of weaponry. All manner of firearms and ammunition have been provided for the creation of a sound military."

"I think that handing out guns to a group of people whom you have essentially implied should go and fuck themselves is an error of judgement." England arched an eyebrow and glanced at America. "But perhaps that is merely me. What think you, America?"

"I think that the ships should be sent back to the mainland," America said hotly. "We have no want for independence at this time and there has been little talk of it."

"It is true," England added serenely. "This decision really does appear to have been a recent and rather abrupt development."

Mulbury shot them both an arch, haughty look.

"I suppose it would seem that way to sheltered creatures such as yourselves – but I assure you that _running_ a nation is far more difficult than embodying one. What is merely an emotional response to you has economic and social repercussions, amongst other consequences, for the country itself. The fact of the matter is that we can no longer afford to run the North American colonies – and so it is simply negligible that two spoilt, pampered little sluts object to their repulsive lovenest being torn apart."

America's teacup shattered in his grasp. He didn't make a sound, his gaze fixated on Mulbury as though he was in utter shock, but his hands were bleeding, the broken porcelain littering his lap and his bump.

England pulled his cravat out from under his collar.

"I will not tolerate the use of that word," he coldly. "I think you ought to leave, Mr Mulbury."

Mulbury rose as England took America's hands and began to mop at them with his silk cravat, carefully cleaning away the blood. America trembled under his grip, white in the face, but said nothing, did nothing.

"Very well," Mulbury said frostily. "I think we have nothing else to discuss, regardless. Good day to you both."

He walked out of the room, letting the door swing closed with a loud bang behind him; and presumably made so much commotion leaving the house that the serving man returned, peering nervously into the room.

"Mr Mulbury has left, sir," he said.

"I am aware of that," England replied dismissively. "If you would be so kind as to bring me some boiled water and a bandage."

The servant nodded and hurried away as England began to pick the pieces of smashed teacup from America's clothing.

"There now, love," he said gently. "We'll soon have you fixed up right as rain."

America looked up at him and met his gaze. His blue eyes were wet.

"England," he said quietly, "please don't leave. I simply could not bear it. I always miss you so when you return to Europe even though... I know that you will return. For you to... to _go_ without..."

England squeezed America's hands in his as much as he dared as the tears finally spilled over, running down the teenager's face. He wasn't sobbing, wasn't even shaking, but somehow he looked yet more distraught for his composure, merely looking at England imploringly, desperately.

"Of course I am not going to leave," England assured him distractedly, putting his arms around him and pulling him close. "Never, my treasure. Nothing will ever separate us, I promise."

America hung onto him limply, taking a deep breath.

"I wish we did not mimic them so closely," he whispered. "Perhaps then it would not hurt so much when they punish us for having feelings. Perhaps I should rather go without, for at least then they would have nothing to mock."

"To banish pain completely would be a fool's errand, nonetheless," England replied gently. He kissed America's temple and cuddled him close. "Sometimes pain bears wonderful things, my love."

* * *

"Are you quite comfortable, princess?" France asked dryly; he couldn't reach his wine and let his hand drop defeatedly, instead looking down at England – who was lying on top of him, his head pillowed in the crook of France's neck.

"Princess." England gave a snort. "I think not, for I have kissed you a hundred times and still you remain a slimy frog."

"Truly, Angleterre, your tongue could cut diamond. It must be all the practice upon other hard things."

"France, you have a peculiar preoccupation with my mouth and the things which may or may not occupy it. One would think that you were hinting."

France smiled wryly.

"I have long since learnt that such things bear no fruit," he sighed, stroking at England's hair. "Well, since you did not come here to perform oral sex upon my person, might I inquire the reason for this charming social call? I would remind you at this point that you have had three glasses of wine and otherwise amply-generous hospitality, and so telling me to mind my own fucking business will not be looked kindly upon."

England sighed and closed his eyes, nuzzling comfortably against France's chest. They were sprawled on the large, plush sofa in the drawing room, fully-clothed and a little bit tipsy; France was perfectly aware that England wouldn't need much persuasion to be steered into bed when he was in this state and wasn't entirely certain that he would restrain himself from doing so later on.

Canada had locked himself in his room upon England's arrival, refusing to come out at all after learning that America too was not in attendance. England had looked pleased by Canada's obtuse evasion of him before settling into his usual routine of forgetting that the older twin existed and instead talking about his precious America as though he was the _only_ thing that existed in the entire world—

Except that he seemed quieter than usual on that latter subject.

"What troubles you, mon cher?" France pressed coaxingly. "You seem so melancholic this evening."

England exhaled deeply again.

"Mulbury came," he muttered blackly. "If nothing else, I now know for certain what is on those ships – and so does America. It is utter madness. I understand well the workings of war but this kind of peace cannot and _will_ not be carved out by offering the colonists no compensation other than three ships full of guns."

"It is not war," France agreed. "It is insanity."

"I cannot stand by and allow this to happen," England went on. "I simply cannot. These actions will condemn the colonies to a slow decay and eventual death; after all of our work, everything that we have built here, I cannot allow that to be thrown away for the sake of a few pounds a year."

"And of Amérique himself?"

"They seek to separate us." England clenched his fists. "But we will not be parted. If America himself had desire for independence, that would be an entirely different matter, but as it stands he has no wish to be taken from me and is not ready regardless. Liberty cannot be forced, which is something that humans would do well to learn. Freedom is a sweet and fragrant fruit which ripens only when its seekers are ready to eat of it. What is happening now is not liberty, enforced or otherwise; it is abandonment, and for all the desperate penny-pinching, I will _not_ abandon America. I will take him home to the mainland with me if it comes to that."

France pursed his lips doubtfully.

"I do not think that that would be looked kindly upon," he said quietly. "All recent developments aside, are you not still in disgrace?"

"I care not. I will not be made to turn my back upon my child."

France nodded absently.

"Speaking of children and, indeed, ripened fruits, how fares Amérique?"

"He grows steadily and has put on a lot of weight. I believe he likely has less than a fortnight of his pregnancy left."

"You are aware that, with things as they are, the child will likely be snatched out of your arms the instant it takes its first breath."

"I know – as does America, though I cannot say that either of us much cares for the situation. He was rather outspoken about the unfairness of it all the other day and I quite see his point."

"It is understandable. We are political and national tools, if nothing else."

"But it is _not_ fair!" England burst out vehemently, sitting up suddenly. Straddling France's stomach, he put his hands on the Frenchman's chest and looked down at him, holding his gaze. "They see us as... as sub-human, as beasts, as stupid creatures who can only ape human emotion and behaviour in an attempt to be like them, and so they treat us accordingly. If we were human, we would not be in this situation, worrying that the baby will be pried out of our grasp and—"

"Angleterre, were we human, you would not be in this situation _at all_," France reminded him drolly, "for in humans, two males may not produce a child."

"You are missing the point!" England snapped. "Regardless of gender, regardless of physiology, had we the same _rights_ as humans, then, I would not be awaiting the birth of the child in fear that both it and America himself will be torn away from me at any moment because my government no longer thinks him a worthy investment!"

"Angleterre, calm yourself." France rubbed at his hands soothingly. "I cannot promise that I will be of much help but I will talk with my own governors and see if some kind of intervention cannot be improvised. Our nations are allies, after all, and perhaps for a small price, the colonies can change hands should it come to the British government opting to abandon them." He smiled. "It is not ideal, I know, but it is something, and you would have my word that Amérique would at least be cared for until he is truly ready to represent a fully-independent nation. In fact, should you visit as regularly as you do now, nothing need change at all."

England sighed and looked away, studying one of the paintings on the wall in disinterest.

"Angleterre," France said again, his voice gentler. "Listen to me. There is one thing you must promise me." When England still didn't answer him, he gave him a little shake. "_Angleterre_."

"What?" England asked sullenly. "What _else_ must I do, France?"

France rubbed at one of England's knees comfortingly.

"Promise me that you will not run."

* * *

America sat halfway up the staircase, his forehead pressed against the wooden bars as he boredly surveyed the empty entrance hall below; he was at a bit of a loss with what to do himself in England's absence, his physical condition barring him from the majority of the corporal activities he usually threw himself into to curb his restlessness. He was tired of books, tired of toys and games, tired of being inside and tired of being outside, tired of sleeping, tired of eating, tired of sitting and standing and walking and lying down. He was so heavy that everything was laborious and uncomfortable, his back constantly twinging, and he'd actually been feeling this way for a few weeks – but at least with England here, he wasn't lonely. Being bored and irritable was more bearable when you had someone to talk to.

But England was over at France's house and America hadn't been invited due to the uneven roads and bumpy carriage that tended to leave bruises, leaving him sitting and sighing on the stairs instead. His belly took up almost his entire lap by now and he stretched out his legs to ease the weight on his thighs, crossing them this way and that to get the muscles working and watching them jiggle in disgust. He was getting fat, he knew it, and the thought didn't do much to cheer him up. Being pregnant meant that he ate more and exercised less and at this point, with even the beginnings of a double chin, simply his first glance in the mirror when he got up tended to set his grouchy mood for the rest of the day. He really couldn't wait for this to be over; he didn't mind looking after the baby once it was born but he was sick as hell of carting it around inside him.

The child in question was moving at the moment, little hitches like hiccups every now and then, and since it was disturbing him and his mood wasn't altogether terribly tolerant, he decided to disturb it back, prodding at it so that it twitched under his touch. He was so used to feeling it squirming inside him that it didn't hold much novelty but it was something to do.

He paused as he heard the sound of crunching gravel outside, punctuated by the crisp and familiar staccato of hooves, and sat up eagerly at the realisation that it might be England returned from France's. He grasped hold of the banister and pulled himself up, standing just as there were footfalls on the steps outside and then—

A knock?

America frowned. England didn't knock. He would have a key with him.

One of the maids came at the sound of knocking, America watching her over the banister as she opened the door to two familiar men: Benjamin Franklin and John Adams stood on the other side of it and at once inquired after England.

"It is important," Franklin said. "Word has gotten out about the town that there are plans for the British to leave the colonies in the lurch with nothing to their names but a cargo of firearms. This matter – and how to deal with it should it come to a head – needs to be discussed at once. Presently it looks as though there may be riots."

"England must come at once," Adams pressed. "We would find his presence a great asset given that he is the national representative of Great Britain but remains against their wishes."

The maid lowered herself into an apologetic curtsey.

"I am afraid that the master is not here," she replied in a small voice. "He went out earlier and told no-one where he was bound for."

Adams kneaded at his temples in frustration.

"This is dreadful," he groused. "We need him, not because we are relying him to win anyone over with his reasons but rather that his mere presence will work in our favour. For him to be absent will be highly damaging to our stance, for if we cannot even persuade the British national personification to listen in on our discussion, what hope have we of making the British government to heed us?"

"Have you no idea where he might be?" Franklin asked.

The maid shook her head worriedly and Franklin distractedly took out a handkerchief to mop at his brow.

"This needs to be attended to before it gets out of hand," he muttered.

America tightened his fists and took a deep breath before calling to them from the stairs.

"W-wait!" Holding on to the banister, he came down the steps as fast as he was able. "Perhaps I can help!"

Franklin smiled when he saw him.

"America," he greeted him warmly. "Good to see you, my boy. Know you of England's whereabouts?"

America hesitated, silent as he reached them, before shaking his head.

"No," he lied. "I was not informed where he went either. But... maybe I could go in his stead? I am the national representation of the colonies and England and I share the same dim view of the British government's proposal. Could _I_ not be of service instead? I have a voice and I wish to use it, gentlemen."

Franklin appeared interested in the idea.

"Well, all things considered, I fail to see why not." He glanced at Adams. "What say you, Mr Adams?"

Adams arched an eyebrow.

"I think it is an excellent idea," he said, "but I worry that you have never been to a meeting of humans before. They are not all so kind as Dr Franklin here. I do hope that you are able to stand your ground."

"I will try my utmost to, sir," America promised fervently.

"Very well," Adams said briskly. "Fetch a jacket and come along, then. We must hence as soon as we are able."

America nodded and hurried as fast as he was able to the cloakroom, glancing about for something suitable. Something plain, really, would be better; and nothing too tight, either, for it would draw attention to his condition. Perhaps a simple travelling cloak would suffice-

And then he saw it. _Of course_.

Hanging neatly at the back, well out of harm's way, was England's red military uniform coat. What better way, he thought, to make his statement to these men than to clothe himself in the colour of his loyalty to them? The buff facings and gleaming brass buttons simply bespoke of his willingness, surely, to fight for the cause, of his promise to never accept the terms of Britain's abandonment.

America went to the coat and carefully unhooked it, slipping it on. It was heavy on his shoulders, close on his back, and smelt of faded gunpowder.

So bright, so demanding - it devoured everything about him. Even his bump seemed less noticeable beneath it.

"I am ready, gentlemen," he announced as he crossed the hall towards his companions; the red flowering behind him like fire, putting a spark at his heels.

Adams merely raised his eyebrows.

"I would not like to venture an opinion," he said, "but it is an interesting choice nonetheless. Dr Franklin?"

"I daresay it will make an impression, at least," Franklin replied sagely. "Come, then; we haven't the time to dally."

They turned and headed briskly down the steps towards their transport, America padding after them with as light a step as he could muster. Adams helped him into the carriage after Franklin and sat opposite them both, folding his arms across his chest as they began to move.

"Forgive me," he said, watching America rub absently at his bump, "but I must impress my sincerest hope that, given your confidence in wearing England's coat, you are ready to hold aloft his glory in the same manner as he would himself."

"I... I will try," America promised again, drawing the crimson coat around himself.

Adams simply gave a sigh and looked out of the window.

"I fear," he said, "that the time for trying is long past. We must _do_, my boy, if we are to survive."

* * *

"You did not have to accompany me back," England said as the carriage drew to a halt in the courtyard.

"Well, I have enjoyed your company today," France replied, rubbing his palm across the back of England's hand. "Unusual as that may be."

"Oh, goodness, how you flatter me," England said dryly; he took back his hand with a wry smile and alighted from the carriage, beckoning for France to follow. "Well, then, since I have done well to entertain you thus far, perhaps you will join me for a drink?"

"That would be most kind." France stepped down after him with a touch more grace, taking his arm on his own. "You are turning into quite the little gentleman, my darling."

"Oh, I should certainly hope so," England conceded, "after so much practice. I am more committed to it, after all, than some."

"Angleterre, I do believe that was an insult."

"As do I." England opened the front door and bowed, waving France in first with a graceful flick of his arm. "After you, of course."

France laughed as he swanned through into the grand entrance hall, taking England's hand once more as he followed.

"All the airs and graces in the world," France said, grinning around the kisses he began to pepper upon England's wrist, "cannot hide the fact that you are flirting with me, my angel."

"Oh, I assure you that it is just your finest wine talking," England sighed. "I am but a puppet to its wicked whims."

"Then I say we ply you with yet more," France breathed, moving up to suck at England's neck, "that you might become a puppet to mine."

"I fear... i-it might be too late for that," England mumbled as France rubbed at his hair.

"Oh, you lovely thing," France said warmly; and he kissed him, holding him gently as England's hands fisted in his travelling cloak. It was a chaste kiss, only a flicker of tongue, but it was deep nonetheless and England was limp in his arms when he pulled back; France wrapped his arms around him and embraced him. "I love you so much," he whispered in England's ear. "I hope you know that, my darling."

"I do know that," England replied quietly. "I understand."

France smiled.

"Of course you do." He pulled back a little and kissed England again, intending to open him up this time; but England resisted, pulling away.

"No," he said breathlessly. "First, you will forgive me if I check on America. When I am satisfied that he is settled, you and I will retire and have a drink. Then... well, then there will be plenty of time for other things."

France rolled his eyes.

"Angleterre, you know as well as I do that Amerique will comandeer your attention the moment he sets eyes upon you," he sighed irritably.

"Not so. It is late, I would remind you, and America grows tired very easily in his state. I daresay he is asleep already - but I would check on him nonetheless."

"Very well." France gave an irritated huff. "Let us go and find the brat so that you may dote upon him."

"Oh, how unfair of you - with the poor thing in his condition, too."

"_You_ are the one who put him in that condition, Angleterre."

"Well, we are all given to fool's falls once in a while," England said sourly; "and besides, I should hold my tongue if I were you. I will simply think you jealous otherwise."

"I am most terribly jealous!" France exclaimed.

"Oh, honestly." England took his hand as he began to lead him up the stairs. "Have you no inkling of how to share?"

"It is Amerique, contrarily, who has no knowledge of the concept - he and his colonists both."

England gave France's hand a spiteful squeeze, pinching with his nails.

"And here I thought you were on my side where that was concerned," he said archly, shooting France a baleful look over his shoulder.

"I agree that it is a ridiculous notion," France replied crossly, "but nonetheless I would urge you not to take it too personally. You are the one who stands to be the most hurt if you do."

"I am not having America taken from me," England said blandly. "And that is the end of the matter. I will fight for him if I must."

"Angleterre-"

"Truly, I have rather a headache concerning the whole thing. Do spare me." England pulled away his hand as they came to America's door. "Now quieten yourself. America is likely asleep."

He pushed open the door very gently; but the room was dark and the bed empty. England simply shrugged and pulled the door again.

"He must be in my bed," he sighed. "Truly, I should not have bought the silly boy his own bed. He never sleeps in it. Why I ventured to even check is beyond me."

"If Amerique is in _your_ bed," France said bluntly, annoyed, "where am I supposed to fuck you?"

"Oh, come now, France - I have always deemed you to have more imagination than that. I do think that you are being deliberately stupid."

Down the landing, England pushed open the door to his own chamber; but his shoulders stiffened a little when he found this, too, to be empty.

"Unusual," he said, frowning. "It is gone eleven. He has always been in bed by this time these past few weeks. ...Unless he has fallen asleep in front of the fire again."

England left France behind to trot ahead, checking the drawing room, the library, the study and the living room; but there was no sign of America whatsoever.

"He is gone!" England said desperately, grabbing at France when he finally caught up. "America is gone! I cannot find him anywhere, France!"

"Angleterre, I think you are overreac-"

"What if someone came during my absence and took him?" England twisted his hands into France's silk jacket; he was in an utter panic. "They want to seperate us, after all, and have me abandon him! Oh, this is my fault - I should never have left him in the house by himself!"

"You take him everywhere with you," France said peevishly. "And between that you are often gone for months on end. Honestly, Angleterre, if someone was going to kidnap Amerique, they have had plenty of opportunity to do so before now."

"Then where is he?" England asked desperately. "Please, _please_, you have to help me find him!"

"I would point out that you have not exactly exhausted every place in this house that he could possibly be," France said levelly, peeling England off his jacket, "nor indeed the grounds. Now calm yourself; I will set the servants to the search too. He will be found, I assure you."

England gave a shaky nod and composed himself as France strode away to go down to the servants' quarters; perhaps he _was_ overreacting a little bit but it was so unusual nonetheless. America had favourite places - and not all that many of them - that he liked to sit or lie and it was true that he was often so tired come evening that he went to bed early. For him to have vanished at this time of night was deeply unsettling and England couldn't help but think that his boisterous announcing of America's pregnancy (by the way of that gaudy party) might well have just horribly backfired upon him.

God, it _had_ really been a very stupid thing to do. Sometimes England wished he wasn't such a troublemaker; after all, that party was likely the sole reason for the dispatch from London of William Mulbury.

...Was Mulbury responsible for America's disappearance? England's fists clenched absently at his sides. It would not surprise him in the least; and if America did not reappear very soon, England was nowhere _near_ above jumping to conclusions and heading to the governor's house, where Mulbury was staying, and ripping his head clean off. No metaphor.

France came back with a lantern and suggested that they search the garden while the servants checked the house over properly.

"I know perfectly well," France said frostily, "that he has not parted with his hobby of climbing trees despite being so heavily with child. It is likely that he has climbed one and, due to being so heavily with child, cannot get down."

But the trees in the grounds were empty and England was growing white with worry when they began to head back towards the house once more.

"I might have to kill someone," he said honestly. "Really I might - several, in fact, to get him back. Be a love and call one of the grooms to saddle my horse. I am going inside to fetch my musket."

"Indeed." France took England by the wrist and held up his lantern. "Hold that thought a moment - who comes here?"

Another carriage was pulling up into the courtyard out of the darkness of the country road, sleek and black and gleaming.

"If it is Mulbury, be assured that I cannot be talked out of killing him where he stands," England hissed.

"I do not know who Mulbury is," France replied as the cab drew up and the door opened, "but I assume that he is not the spit of John Adams."

Indeed, Adams stepped out of the carriage, grave-faced; and reached back to help down his two companions. Franklin came first, noticing France and England and acknowledging them with a nod, and then came-

"America!" England wrenched himself out of France's grip and ran to the teenager, gathering him in his arms and embracing him. "My God, praise heaven that you are safe! I was so worried by your absence!"

America said nothing, limp in his grasp. England distractedly stroked at his hair, his every breath a sigh of grateful relief.

"So you two were his kidnappers," France said wryly, joining them at the carriage. "Poor Angleterre has been up the walls with worry."

"Where did you take him?" England demanded, glaring at Adams and Franklin over America's shoulder. "Neither of you had any business spiriting him away without my permission! He might be America but he is nonetheless _my_ colony and _my_ responsibility. The next time you feel like taking him on a jolly little outing, you had bloody well better ask me first!"

"Oh, you will forgive us, I hope," Franklin sighed unhappily. "It was not, however, much of a jolly little outing, on that you have my word."

"We called this afternoon for you, you see," Adams said coolly. "We had need of you but you were not home and America could not tell us where you had gone."

"America, I was with France this afternoon," England said sharply, taking America by the shoulders and holding him back enough to look at him. "I told you that at lunch."

America wouldn't look at him; he didn't make a sound.

"What on earth is the matter with you, boy?" England shook him a little bit. "And why, pray tell, are you wearing my coat?"

"Oh, goodness, this story is growing even uglier," Adams sighed. "And it is not pretty to begin with. We needed you this afternoon, England, at an emergency meeting of representatives of both the colonies and the crown. Your mere presence at our side might have done us a favour - but, alas, you were not available. America volunteered to go in your stead."

"That is where the story gets ugly," Franklin said helpfully. "Needless to say, the voice of an inhuman unmarried pregnant male teenager did not go over terribly well - even though these are his lands that we squabble over. Magistrate Mulbury was particularly vocal."

"I did insist that he be ready to both hold his ground and wear your glory with the ease that he did your coat," Adams said. "But while you may not be terribly popular yourself, England, you at least you know how to train your tongue to your advantage in situations such as today's. I fear that America was not ready for how cruel men can be."

"Then why did you take him?" England cried angrily, holding America close again. "You put him up to be ridiculed - how can you have thought that that would help your cause?"

Adams shrugged.

"We were desperate," he said.

"Just as you were, Angleterre," France purred, "the night you threw that party."

"Get out of my sight," England spat. "All three of you."

Franklin looked apologetic.

"I am sorry that we took him," he said in a low voice. "I suppose I was being optimistic - but it is not his fault. He is still so very young."

"What did you expect from the likes of William Mulbury?" England asked waspishly. "Have you no care for the lad at all? You call yourselves 'Americans', born of his land, and all you care about are your own interests, so much so that you would martyr your own country to save your skins!"

Adams opened his mouth to crossly reciprocate but France waved a hand.

"No, do not bother," he said idly. "Angleterre has a foul temper sometimes, most notably when he believes he is speaking the gospel. Let us leave." He turned and blew England a kiss, his eyes hooded. "My darling, I am saddened that our evening plans were scuppered by, as I expected, sweet Amerique. Perhaps another time. Au revoir!"

England did not offer any of them a brand of farewell, steering America towards the house. He marched him inside and kicked the heavy front door shut behind him. America had still not uttered even a peep, allowing himself to be pushed ahead by England's firm, angry hands.

"He has been found," England barked at one of the housemaids. "Thank you for your trouble." He took his uniform coat from America's form and handed it to her. "Put that back, please - and have someone bring some tea up to my room."

She nodded and took the coat, hurrying away. England took America's elbow and escorted him upstairs, only letting go of him when they were safely in the bedroom with the door shut behind them.

"Now then," he said, unknotting his own cravat and pulling it off, "shall we get you ready for bed? You will feel better for your nightgown and a cup of tea."

America finally looked up at him, his blue eyes desperate.

"Are you not angry?" he asked in a small voice.

"I am furious," England replied, "but not with you. Though I know not why you lied, I know why you went in my stead. That you were pushed into that situation at all is what makes me angry."

"Franklin and Adams stood up for me," America said quietly. "As did Jefferson."

"That is not enough and you know it." England began to undress America, throwing his clothes onto the bed. "America, I do not think that Adams or Franklin or Jefferson - as far as humans go - are bad men but you must understand that all they did today was use you as the frontispiece of their campaign. That is all they wanted me for, too, but at least I am not pregnant and naive."

America flinched; England rubbed at his shoulder.

"Treasure, I did not mean that as an insult," he said in a low voice. "I meant it as a fact. It has taken centuries for me to learn how to hold myself in such situations; I was once as weak as you. What they thought they would achieve by bringing you - especially in your current state - utterly evades me, truly it does." He reached for America's nightgown and pulled it on over his head, tugging it to settle comfortably over his swollen stomach. "...Were... were they dreadfully cruel to you?"

"They... would not let me speak," America said despairingly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Even when Jefferson insisted that everyone be silent, when I stood to... to, well, implore that they rethink their plans for the sake of the colonists, they all shouted at me. They called me... w-well, a slut and-"

"I can imagine," England interrupted gently, sitting next to him; he put his arm around America's shoulders and squeezed him.

"S-someone threw a stone at me and another threw his pen-"

There was a knock at the door and the maid came in carrying the tea tray; irritated though he had been the one to call for it, England went to retrieve it, ushering the maid out. He took the tray to the dresser and poured out the tea, turning back to America with a cup for him.

America was crying, his white knuckles pressed against his mouth.

"Oh, America, do not cry," England implored, hurrying back to his side; he put the tea on the bedside table and pulled the teenager into his arms. "Please do not cry, my sweet. They are nothing but words - cruel, painful, ignorant words accompanied by the Biblical practice of sinners throwing stones. Do not shed tears over them; I cannot bear to see you unhappy."

"It... it is n-not that," America mumbled into England's shoulder. "They are unkind words b-but I know they have n-no real power. It is just that... wh-when I saw them screaming those things, when they went s-so far as to throw pens at me to make be silent... that was when I r-realised that... that..."

"What?" England pressed, rubbing at America's back; he could feel his breath hitching beneath his hand.

"That is how much they want to seperate us," America sobbed. "Th-they were so angry that I dared to say otherwise - I fear that your coat sang r-rather too well for my cause." He clung to England in desperation. "England, they're g-going to make you go back to Britain and I'll... I'll never see you again and-"

"Stop, stop." England hushed him, putting his fingers to his lips. "That is enough, my love. Dry your eyes. You must know that politicians are as sure of themselves as they can be when they know they are losing. The colonists - your people - will never stand for this and neither will I."

"But-"

"America, I promise," England said, kissing him on the forehead, "I am not going anywhere unless it is in a six foot pine box - and even then they might have some difficulty disentangling my corpse from you."

America looked up at him, wiping his eyes. He did not look convinced.

"You cannot promise that," he said softly. "...Not that I am sure I want you to. At least not that last part."

"But you want my assurance that we will never be parted."

America looked away.

"You cannot give it."

"Yes I can." England rose again and went to the dresser, pulling out one of the drawers; its innards gleamed with glittering old wealth, stolen decades and decades ago, long before America had even been born, from the bellies of ships. He rifled through it, pushing aside gleaming gold chains and shining silver brooches, finally coming up with something to play the part.

"What are you looking for?" America inquired.

"This." England came back over to the bed with his prize clutched in his fist. "Give me your hand. The left."

America looked at him guardedly but obeyed; England took his hand and slipped the ring on. It was a little big but America was still only a teenager, so it was likely for the best. He had years to grow into it.

"A ring?" America blinked at it. "I... I do not..."

"Oh, I am being silly," England sighed. "It is a mimicry of human dalliances - but it is a promise nonetheless. I hope you will accept it."

It was a Spanish ring, thieved long ago and presented to Elizabeth I, who had worn it for a while before England had brought her another to take her fancy instead; it was gold, wrought in an intricate weave like ivy (complete with tiny leaves, all hand-etched with veins) and studded with gleaming rubies which glinted like blotches of blood.

"It has some meaning to me," England went on when America said nothing. "It would have greater meaning still if _two_ people dear to my heart were to wear it as a promise of my loyalty."

America gave a weak smile, touching it.

"Thank you," he said. "I shall never take it off."

England stroked his hair fondly.

"Well," he replied, "that is a good start."

* * *

America, England noted, was exceedingly grumpy today. Certainly it wasn't worth the effort trying to get a conversation out of him, for he was engaged only in terse monosyllabics between rubbing at his back and shifting distractedly.

"America, I did ask if you were quite alright," England reminded him coolly over their afternoon tea. "If you are not then it will be no trouble to fetch the doctor to you."

"I am well, truly," America replied crossly. "I do not mean to cause you concern." He drew a breath and closed his eyes, massaging the small of his back with his palm. "My spine merely aches with the weight; that is all."

"Well, if you are quite sure," England said flatly. "Nonetheless, do let me know if you require attention."

"I think I can manage my symptoms - I am hardly unnacquainted with them." America's voice was not without petulant spite. "Besides, you are terribly busy. I should not like to disturb you."

"Well, well, there is no need to be like that." England glanced at him across the table. "Perhaps you ought to go and lie down, love. Some rest might restore your sweet temper."

America got up somewhat sulkily and made his way towards the drawing room door without another word, not taking his hand from his back. He was truly massive from the swell of the child and the panicked stockpile of fat his body had clung to, giving his poor little body the appearance of buckling beneath it all. No wonder his back hurt so much; England made himself a mental note to call the doctor to the house after dinner anyway to prescribe the boy something for sleeping, for he had felt America tossing and turning restlessly these past few nights and knew he wasn't getting the rest he needed. In the meantime England had pressing work to do regarding this nonsense with the weapon-filled ships in Boston Harbor and the reason for their being there at all; and he finished his tea and headed back to his study to throw himself back into it, pushing America and his current state from his mind for the time being.

He worked well, undisturbed, for a few hours and broke at around half past five, stretching out his aching arms and shoulders with an undignified sigh of pleasure. He bade the housemaid entrance at her knock, standing to gather his work into a neat pile.

"Regarding dinner, I presume," he said blandly. "If you have not begun preparations downstairs then do not bother - I will attend to it myself. It is only America and I tonight."

"Very good, sir," the maid replied, "but I come to you with troubling news of the young master. He seems dreadfully unwell. One of the footmen ventured up to ask if he would be changing for dinner and he barely answered, he is in such pain."

"Blast that boy, I told him to disturb me if his condition worsened," England sighed, coming around the desk. "I will go to him. You would do well to go downstairs and tell one of the grooms to ready a horse. The doctor may need to be fetched after all." He paused at the door. "Or perhaps the midwife."

The maid nodded and they went their seperate ways on the landing, England making a brisk path towards his own room with the intention of finding America there.

The teenager was sitting on the window ledge, one hand fisted tightly in the curtain, the other under his belly. He was white in the face, his blue eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing was very shallow, little more than sharp pants. He shuddered and groaned as England approched him, pulling on the curtain.

"America." England touched his face, making him look at him in shock. "It would seem to me that you are in labour. That is why your back has been so painful today, you silly boy. You ought to have called for me."

"Y-you were busy," America muttered, "with m-more important things." He gave a hiss, rubbing fiercely at his stomach. "So I could not... could not..."

"Well, be that as it may," England replied, "it does not seem that the child is going to wait for a more opportune moment. I will have the midwife brought at once."

America bit at his lip and gave a tense nod. He looked utterly terrified. England took the hand on which the ring glinted and held it carefully between his own.

"Do not fret," he said gently. "You will do marvellously."

"It hurts," America said in a tiny voice. "It hurts and it... it will only worsen, I have read b-books-"

"Well, we shall take each step as it comes, my darling." England looked up as the maid knocked at the door and ventured in with a neat curtsey.

"Sir, the groom is ready and waiting. Would you have him bring the doctor or midwife?"

"The midwife, if you please. And do tell him to hurry."

"Of course, sir. And anything else?"

"Some lemon for the boy would not go amiss; ah, and some tea." England patted America's small hand again. "I think our nerves will need it."

America shot England a weak smile.

"Only _you_ would prescribe tea at a childbirth." He let his head fall against England's shoulder, taking another deep breath before wincing. "_Ohhhh_..." He exhaled it, shifting. "I-I want to get up..."

"Yes, come, then." England helped him up. "Walking is good for the pain, at least in the early stages. Try not to lie down, love; it makes the labour very difficult."

"Am I supposed to give birth standing?" America asked irritably, reaching for the bedpost to hold his weight.

"No, no; kneeling, oftentimes," England replied, rubbing at his back, "though the birthing chair is more common these past few decades."

"Have we one... one of those?"

"No, darling. The midwife will bring one for you."

America took another breath and then nodded, clutching at the wooden post. He looked positively ill with pain and fright. His knees started buckling and England got him moving again, supporting his weight as he made him pace for a few minutes.

The tea came, and the lemon; America sat on the edge of the bed and gnawed distractedly at it, rocking back and forth to ease the pain. He wouldn't take the tea, though. England sat next to him with his own cup and soothed him between sips, hoping that the midwife would be with them soon. He didn't know how to deal with this past the point of mild contractions; he certainly wasn't advised on how to safely deliver a baby.

America made to get up again, grasping blindly at England's arm for support, and doubled with a groan no sooner than he was on his feet. He gasped, his breath catching, and there was a sudden splash on the floorboards.

"What happened, what happened?" America grabbed at him in panic. "Am I bleeding? I-is the baby coming?"

"It is just the waters breaking," England replied gently. "Calm yourself. You still have a way to go, I am afraid."

He disentangled America from himself and pushed him gently onto the bed again, reaching to unbutton his shirt.

"Come," he went on soothingly, "let us get you out of these wet things. We shall put you in your nightgown. You cannot give birth in your clothes."

America started to cry weakly, his entire body racked with shuddering sobs; he was pale and small and so, so frightened, his gold hair coming loose from its cord and tangling around his face. England again wished he would cut it, smoothing it back; America shook his head away, flinching from his touch as he wept.

"Oh, please, _please_ do not cry," England begged, taking him close. "I know you are afraid but I am with you."

"Wh-why did you d-do this to me?" America wailed into his shoulder. "What ill did I c-commit that you saw f-fit to punish me like this?"

"No, treasure, _no_, you did nothing at all to deserve this." England stroked distractedly at his hair, wrung through with guilt. "Please forgive me my hideous sin. I should never have touched you."

"I w-want it to stop." America writhed against him as another contraction pushed through his body. "Pl-please, I want... I want it all to stop, _everything_, I want..."

"America," England said unhappily, "I am powerless to stop this. I... I must ask you to bear the brunt of my mistake."

America didn't say anything; but his crying ebbed until he was merely breathing deeply against England's shoulder, rocking into him with every inhale so that the tight swell of his abdomen was ever noticeable between them.

They waited.

* * *

Tea, tea everywhere, tea for everyone! I swear, looking back on this, there's not a single scene in which England isn't like "Oh, my, what a dilemma! Someone do bring me some tea, please!". XD Well, this is Britain - and that's how we deal. Am I drinking tea as I upload this? Why yes. Yes I am.

I am going on a very exciting trip to Hong Kong with my friend in less than two weeks (she has promised we will eat cute cakes and have our photos taken in sticker booths while wearing cheongsams like the lames we are - while she is British, she was born in Hong Kong so I am taking all of these promises of hers deeply to heart). I plan to have the final part of this segment of the fic posted before I go, however, because I am, quite frankly, sick of looking at it forlornly languishing halfway down my profile page wondering why I keep forgetting about its ballet performances.

So. Yes. Next and final part of the 18th Century mpreg lulz up soon. NO MORE EMPTY PROMISES.

(...There are always empty promises with me. T.T)

RR xXx


	3. The Sun Is In The Sky: III

Wellllllll, this still isn't all of it (I overestimate my writing speed, it seems) but _I'm _getting so sick of my empty promises, lololol, that I decided to leave this on a horrible cliffhanger before I bugger off to Hong Kong. I'm sure no-one is going to chase me down if I don't update but I feel mean saying I'll post something and then... don't. XD

(...Though I'm likely to be even _less _popular after this, hahaha~)

Thanks to: **watchulla, FuyuKoneko, ilovesmilingfools, RinaCath, MuSiC HaTs, Narroch, This just occurred to me **(...not your pen-name, I assume!)**, Lamashtar Two, Warpath Grizzly, worldaccordingtofangirls **and **Undying Angel**!

The Sun Is In The Sky [3/3]

A mistake though it had been, as with it all, England nonetheless saw fit to yet spin gold from this. America keened, huffed through bitten lips with exertion, as he struggled through his labour - and was he not the land of hard work? He was beautiful, plentiful, his soil generous, but his earth had been wild once, dangerous, tamed only by the steel will of men. Even now, farmers of all things were repaid for hard grit and hard grit only.

This was what England had said that night at that pathetic party; his hands on America's swollen belly, pushing it forward to whoever would listen, whoever would see his potential. He was fruitful, deeply and clearly, but he gave nothing for free.

Still, perhaps the child itself would serve as a better incentive than England's filled words or America's filled womb. It would have gold hair, either the sun-blaze of America's or the harvest-wheat of England's, and eyes the colour of the open sky or, perhaps, the lush sweep of wild grassy plains. It would be small, of course, because America himself was small - but it would have such promise, that tiny little newborn sired of the Old World and carried, birthed, nursed by the New.

Truly, with America slumped against him, his breathing shallow between low moans - in the very throes of bringing their mistake into the world - England had never been so proud of him.

He was mopping at America's drenched forehead with his cravat, brushing his long hair away from his creased brow, when there was at last a knock at the bedroom door and the midwife bustled in with no pretense about her. The groom was behind, carrying the folded birthing chair.

The midwife, one of the only ones in Boston, was well-known, a Mrs Carson; a woman somewhere in her forties with a brisk, firm, professional manner and an excellent knowledge of her craft. She was English, having come on the ships some twenty years ago to the colonies - where mothers and babies often died for the lack of a knowledgeable hand in childbirth. England, of course, put little stock in most humans but he knew of no-one in all of Boston (and perhaps, too, in Britain itself) who could be better entrusted to this task.

Not that this was her usual fare, of course.

Mrs Carson paused uncertainly upon seeing her patient; there was no mistaking him, of course, with his white hands and hiccoughing breath.

"A boy," she said faintly; and she stepped back. "I cannot abide by witchcraft, sir, nor anything that it sires."

England rose to her, his hand rubbing soothingly at America's neck.

"Inhuman," he corrected brusquely, "though rest assured that I have not called you here to dance with demons. There is nothing unholy in this, on that you have my solemn word."

Mrs Carson met his eyes, her hands on her broad hips. There were bloodstains from an earlier birth on her apron.

"Regardless," she replied shakily, "it is unnatural - and so, if you will excuse, out of my area of expertise."

"Nonetheless, you possess more expertise than I," England said, "and I would be grateful for your help in the matter. I am fast becoming redundant."

She appeared conflicted for a long moment, almost panicked, cornered; but America groaned, clutching at his stomach, and her mind was made up for her. She nodded and rolled up her sleeves, coming to him.

"Very well, let me have a look." She took America's elbow and pushed gently at him. "Come along, my lovely; lie back for a moment."

England helped him to recline against the pillows - and he panted shallowly as the midwife hiked up his bloodying nightgown to examine him.

"Hermaphrodite," she observed in a low voice.

"In a manner of speaking," England replied. "I will thank you to hold your tongue on such things once you have left our employ - I have gold enough to lock it."

"Gold makes a fine key," Mrs Carson hummed, "but I practice patient confidentiality well enough without it, sir." She tucked America's gown over his knees again. "I can see that this is his first. He is progressing well, you will be glad to know; dilation is almost completed and the waters broke some time ago, correct?"

"A little over an hour ago, yes."

"How long has he been in labour?"

"He has been complaining of back pain almost all day, which I suspect was likely the start of it. I should say eight hours at the very least."

"I see." Mrs Carson looked at America critically. "With the pace so accelerated, I do not think that he has very much longer to go - perhaps another hour or two. There is nothing we can do for the pain, unfortunately, and it seems worthless to offer him any sort of sedation at this late stage."

"What, then?"

"Well, I shall stay to assist the birth, of course, but for the moment there is not much to do but wait for the contractions to advance to their purpose. When he is ready to begin pushing, we will put him in the chair."

England nodded, feeling America groping for his hand. He slipped his own into the teenager's sweaty palm, squeezing.

"Should he be lying down?" he asked, nodding to America sprawled on the bed.

"The poor thing is clearly exhausted and will need his strength to push," Mrs Carson replied. "Let him lie for now - it can do no harm. He should be upright for the birth itself. In the meantime, we need to prepare. Have your servants fetch some sheets or towels so that we are not flurrying at the last moment; and have them boil some water, too, in a basin. There is no good in washing a baby in dirty water."

"Very well." England gestured to the groom, who was waiting by the door. "You heard Mrs Carson - clean linens and some boiled water, if you please." He looked to Mrs Carson. "Would you like some tea while we wait?"

Mrs Carson appeared amused.

"That would be lovely," she replied.

* * *

America lay on his side on the bed, gasping like a hooked fish, and England watched him guardedly. The sheets were stained with the bloody show and his contractions had grown steadier in pace, a clear signal that the time was fast approaching, but he seemed too drained to even prop himself up.

"Perhaps... the bed, then?" England asked weakly, failing to rouse him; he chanced a look at Mrs Carson, who shook her head firmly.

"No, it will take much longer and he will have no strength," she said. "The upright position uses gravity as its assistant. Help me move him to the chair."

England nodded, giving America's shoulder a little shake.

"America, we are going to move you to the birthing chair, alright?"

"_No_," America moaned; his fist closed around the bedsheet. "L-leave me be, I beg you..."

England looked helplessly at Mrs Carson, who tightened her lips and rolled back her sleeves.

"You must not be swayed by his pleas," sha said briskly, coming to the bed herself. "Women in labour are notorious for emotional blackmail - I can only assume that this child is no different despite his gender. We simply _must _move him. Now come along."

She took him beneath the small of his back and the crooks of his knees, motioning with a nod of her head for England to heave him up under his arms so that they could bodily lift him from the bed. America clung desperately - and fruitlessly, as it turned out - to the sheet, pulling it with him as he was hefted the three steps to the birthing chair.

"Gently, now," Mrs Carson instructed; and together they propped him into a sitting position and began to lower him into the chair.

America, however, was having none of it, giving a sudden struggle which broke the midwife's hold on him; he kicked savagely at the chair, knocking it over, and England was left holding him up on legs which had long since given out at the knees.

"America, pray do not be quite so ridiculous," England scolded. "Mrs Carson, I _do _apologise."

"It is alright," Mrs Carson replied breezily, "I have come across maidens with a meaner kick, I assure you." She returned to America and took his hand, patting it. "Now then, dear, you simply _must _go in the chair."

"I don't want to!" America burst out, trying to wrest himself from England's grasp. "I don't want to, _I don't want to_!"

"Really, now," England said frostily. "Such a fuss - you do me no credit, America, by being so silly."

"I care not!" America sobbed. "I am _not _going in that chair!"

"Well, I fear that I cannot hold you up much longer."

"_This is your fault!_" America screamed at him. "I am weighed down by your sin! You should be the one to bear this pain - not I!"

"America-" England began angrily.

"Stay your temper," Mrs Carson implored, stepping in as America wept weakly, sagging in England's arms. "He is very frightened and says things which he does not mean because he perceives your own calmness as highly unfair. I have heard the most well-mannered of women curse their poor husbands to highest heaven whilst in childbirth. Do not shout at him, it will do nothing to improve his condition."

"Well, I cannot account for his being so difficult!" England said crossly. "He cannot give birth on the floor - why he does not see the rationality-"

"He is in too much pain to see sense. For him, the birthing chair is finality - he is afraid of giving birth and being seated in the chair means that there can be only one conclusion."

"Then what are we to do?" England asked, adjusting his slipping grasp on America.

"We will wait for a contraction and take advantage of it. Let me fetch him some water in the meantime - we do not want him dehydrating."

England exhaled, nodding. He glanced down at America, who was limp in his arms, his breath shuddering. His damp hair was almost all loose from the leather cord, sticking to his throat. He looked positively wretched, so small and miserable, and didn't protest much when England hiked him up again.

"Here you are, dear." Mrs Carson brought the water to him, lifting his chin so that he might drink it; he gulped sloppily at it for a moment before pulling his head away again and groaning through his teeth. "I think we are ready," Mrs Carson went on, putting the glass aside.

America punctuated her statement with a gasping wail, his knees buckling again; Mrs Carson reached swiftly under them and together she and England used the distraction of the pain to carefully ease the teenager into the chair. America, for all his sobbing about the seat, seemed relieved to be sitting, sagging in it and leaning his head against the tall back as the last of the contraction seared through him.

"There now," Mrs Carson said gently, wiping at his face with one of the towels. "There, all is well. You are doing a wonderful job."

America didn't seem to be listening to her, breathing deeply with his eyes closed; his small hands gripped tightly, achingly, at the arms of the birthing chair. England rubbed at his own forehead, observing America helplessly before looking to the clock. It was past eight, the hand tranquil in its movement.

Things stagnated again, America groaning his way through frequent contractions with little leeway. England busied himself briefly by retying the cord about his hair, pulling it away from his face, though America barely noticed. Nearing nine o' clock, with England having resorted to mere nervous pacing, there was the umistakeable sound of gravel crunching beneath hooves and lacquer wheels. A hopeful flutter in his heart at the thought that it might be France, England trotted to the window and pulled back the curtain to glance out at the darkened drive. He frowned, however, at the sight of Adams stepping briskly out of the cab, followed by Thomas Jefferson. These men turning up at the house had not boded well of late and England was naturally not remotely pleased to see them at this time of night-

And not _now_. England kneaded at his temples as he cast another glance at America. Christ, _now_, of all times?

He crossed the room, opening the door and stepping out onto the landing.

"England!" America looked up suddenly, speaking for the first time in almost an hour. Both his tone and his expression were frantic. "Wh-where are you going?"

"Nowhere, darling," England replied, his hand on the doorframe. "We simply have some guests. I will be back now." He went to the balcony, leaning over in time to see one of the maids hurrying to the door at the sound of knocking.

"Send them up!" he called to her. "I haven't the time for drawing room formality at this time - send them straight to my chamber."

The maid gave a confused nod and England was satisfied to leave it at that, hurrying back to the room to find America trying to get out of the birthing chair, Mrs Carson firmly restraining his feeble efforts. England went to him, putting his hand on the teenager's shoulder.

"No, treasure, you have to stay in the chair," he said soothingly.

"I-I thought you were leaving." America clutched at England's sleeve. "I... pl-please, you..."

"It's alright, it's alright. I am here and I shall not leave your side, you have my vow." England kissed his forehead, America pressing his clammy hand to his, the ring glinting. "I hope you will not mind visitors, my love, though I know it is rather inconvenient."

"The birth-room is no place for curiosity!" Mrs Carson said sharply. "I cannot have squeamish gentlemen behaving like ninnies while I am trying to work."

"I know - and I am sure that they will not be with us long. Once they see America's condition, I am doubtless that they will see fit to leave."

Mrs Carson folded her arms.

"I should certainly hope so."

The maid knocked and curtseyed in Adams and Jefferson; England nodded politely to them upon their entrance, his hands on America's heaving shoulders.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I bid you good evening but I hope you will not think me rude if I ask you to cut straight to your purpose. I am certain it will not escape you that we are rather preoccupied at present."

"Quite," Adams said curtly, averting his eyes to the wall.

"Perhaps there is method in this." Jefferson looked America over, pale and huddled in the wooden chair, his nightgown sticking to the swell of his ripened stomach. "I fear that an uglier birth may be almost upon us."

England sighed.

"I have been working on emergency legislation all afternoon," he said wearily. "It is not quite to my level of satisfaction yet but if you must, you may take what I have done-"

"No," Adams cut in, "it is too late for that now."

England looked between them with an incredulous arch of an eyebrow.

"You cannot mean that you wish to take America as your mascot for a second time," he said. "To start with, look at the condition he is in! He is on the verge of giv-"

"No, I do see that that would be out of the question," Jefferson said dryly. "We come, in fact, for _you_."

England shook his head.

"That, too, is utterly out of the question," he said in a low voice. "You cannot possibly expect me to leave America, not during this. I must stay with him, I simply _must_."

Jefferson looked stricken.

"Yes, I quite understand," he said, "but I would nonetheless implore that you change your mind. None of your politicians have a single silver word to say to the colonists."

"Tomorrow," England said. "I will go tomorrow and set them straight, you have _my _silver word." He kneaded at America's shoulders as the teenager groaned and doubled over in the chair. "What sense is there in calling a meeting at this time of night? I will not go, it is nothing short of _preposterous_."

"It is not a meeting," Adams said. "The riots have begun. There is fighting in the town square between colonists and the British Army. We have tried to placate them but it is to no avail. Dr Franklin sent us to fetch you, England. If we cannot speak of your intentions and your politicians _will _not, perhaps _you _can tell them what they want to hear." He gave a sigh. "Even if your words are mere empty promises, you must still them in their self-destruction before there is nothing of Boston left."

"I cannot!" England insisted. "I cannot leave America's side - and that you would ask me to-"

"We would not ask you to were it not of utmost importance!" Jefferson argued. "But this is for America's _sake_. The British government seeks to cast off the colonies and I do not see that they will be terribly inclined to keep them if their colonists behave in such a way as to near-abouts declare war on them over the terms of their abandonment. But the colonists, they are simple folk and they are understandably angry - they see no sense in these words."

"Then what on earth do you expect _me _to do?" England snapped.

"You are England," Adams said, "and so many of America's people have England's blood. Promise them that you will not leave them and they will listen. They will know not _why _they listen, why they believe you, but they will."

"I promised America that I would not leave him," England replied, "and you would have me make a lie of _that_."

Adams cleared his throat.

"If you do not come now and set your people to ease," he said frostily, "you will lose them. You will lose the colonies-"

"You know I have little care for humans," England said icily.

"You _will _lose America, England." Jefferson said it, meeting England's eyes. "If you want any of your promises to him to mean anything, you _must _come."

England exhaled, stroking at America's hair as he shuddered beneath another contraction.

"When you put it like that," he said woodenly, "and remind me that no nation, colony or otherwise, is ever free from the pathetic woes of mankind, I suppose I have no choice but to put the bastard humans before my child."

Adams nodded tersely.

"That is one way of saying it," he agreed.

"Come," Jefferson said briskly. "If we leave now, you may be back before he gives birth. I know well that labour can take a great many hours."

England gave a steely nod and looked to Mrs Carson.

"I entrust him to you," he said flatly. "I am sure that my faith is not misplaced."

Mrs Carson gave a silent, anxious nod, moving to take England's place at America's back. America, however, clung to the hem of England's tunic.

"You cannot go," he moaned. "England, England... please... do not leave me..."

"Oh, I must, my treasure," England whispered, taking his shaking hands. "I am truly sorry to be torn from you when you need me most but I must go and fight for my given right to keep you as my own. Please forgive me."

"No, _no_!" America wailed, clinging tighter as England attempted to tug his hem free. "England, _please_...!"

"America, for _your _sake, I must go. I am so, _so _sorry." Still America would not let go of his tunic and England heightened his tone to a firmer one. "I must ask you to relinquish your hold, darling. You are being very silly once again."

"I _won't _let you leave!" America screeched, tears spilling forth once more. "I need you, _I need you!_"

But his grip suddenly faltered nonetheless, his fingers spasming as another contraction washed through him with the force of the tide; he doubled up and writhed in the chair and England was pushed free by Mrs Carson.

"Go now," she said firmly. "You are making him very distressed. You have my word that I will look after him."

"Yes, come," Adams agreed briskly; and he took England's elbow and ushered him out of the room behind Jefferson. England almost resisted but at length gave in, turning his back on America. Adams pulled the door shut behind them and they crossed the landing to start down the stairs, England escorted either side by America's politicians.

They were almost to the bottom, stepping into the entrance hall, when England faltered completely; America was screaming for him, his wails echoing through the house as he injected all of his pain and fear into England's name.

"I cannot leave him," England gasped, turning on his heel-

"_You must_!" Adams seized England's arm and pulled him back. "Is it _too much _to ask that you speak up for us? Magistrate Mulbury does like to go on about how spoiled your kind are but I was never inclined to believe him until now."

"I am selfish, I will admit," England replied coldly, snatching his arm back, "but I am far from spoiled." He waved his hand as he stepped ahead of both men. "Very well, gentlemen, let us depart - that I may be your puppet."

* * *

The carriage ride into Boston was an unpleasant one, frosted over by the ugliness of England's resentment; Adams folded his arms and looked straight ahead at the opposite wall and Jefferson kept his gaze trained on the world outside the window. England, meantime, fidgeted with his pocketwatch, his green eyes chasing the hand around its moon face, his thoughts ever on America. It was twenty minutes to ten.

_Much too late, _England thought, _for this sort of bollocks._

The carriage rolled past the Massachusetts Town House and came to a stop at the scaffold erected in the town square; this was the public eye, the place for announcements and speeches, laws and punishments and executions, the place for men to make use of words, silver or otherwise. It was piled high with flaming tongues of a great many words - Union Jacks and the Cross of St George and portraits of King George III, torn from ships and taverns and shops and houses, all tossed into a stack and set alight like effigies of Guy Fawkes. Around the scaffold were draped several of the flag of the colonies, the Union Jack in the left hand corner and thirteen white and red stripes. These, too, had been taken from everywhere to dress the colonists' cause - but these had been treated with care, hung neatly to border the scaffold.

"As you can see," Adams said dryly as they stepped down, "the fools are going about this in a somewhat unwieldy manner."

"And as I said," England replied wearily, "I do not know what you expect me to say to these people. The time for words seems long past."

"This is senseless rioting," Franklin agreed, coming to join them. "They seem to have no common goal in mind other than to merely cause chaos."

He gave a brief wave towards Boston's square; there were a few bodies sprawled on the cobbles, colonists and Redcoats alike, hardly the cost of a war but more than England cared to count nonetheless. Every single shop had had its windows smashed in, the shattered glass glinting under the dancing orange light of the flames on the scaffold, and there was a small scuffle going on further down the street between three civilians and two British soldiers; there were several chickens running about the men's feet, picking at the pieces of scattered bread which had been tossed from the bakery's window.

"Most of them have migrated towards the harbour," Franklin explained gravely, "with the means to attack the ships. I overheard Mr Revere declaring that they would throw all of the offered weapons into the water and then set the ships alight."

"Where is Washington when we need him?" Jefferson muttered. "Revere would not _dare _to behave like this on his watch."

"I will hence to the harbour and see if I cannot talk some sense into Revere and his Merry Men," Adams said briskly. "He seems to be the ringleader. Accompany me, Dr Franklin, that you might direct me to him."

They climbed back aboard the carriage and moved off, leaving England in the flaming square with Thomas Jefferson.

"Well, what now?" England asked waspishly, turning to Jefferson. "Am I to stand upon a burning scaffold and shout to men who will not listen? Am I to prove my worth to you then?"

"No," Jefferson replied; and he withdrew a pistol, which he calmly aimed at England's forehead. "We have other ways in which you can be of some use to us."

England blinked at him, taken aback.

"I... excuse me?"

"I do not like to lower myself to this," Jefferson said unhappily. "We have done a cruel and base thing tonight, I must confess; we tricked you, England, to bring you out here and I do so wish that it had not come to this. I quite like you and to have betrayed your trust, especially when America needed you, does not make me jubilant. But despite our trickery, the rioting is real, make no mistake of that. You are correct, you see - your words will come much too late to have any impact upon these people. No, it is not them who we must reason with. It is _your _government, _your _king."

"You wish for me to talk to him on your behalf?" England asked frustratedly. "He will not listen, I assure you-"

"No, I rather think that our actions will speak well enough. You will be our prisoner, our hostage, until our demands are met by your government."

England gave an incredulous smile.

"Do not be ridiculous," he said, shaking his head. "I am very, _very _hard to kill. I do not think that _anything _you could possibly do to me would cause any sort of concern for my wellbeing to His Majesty."

Jefferson merely shook his head at him, the gun unwavering in his hand.

"You do not understand humans," he said. "You are a selfish, insular creature - you love no other beings but France and America, this I know. You do not understand society, you do not understand image. We will not harm you, England, moreover because we cannot - but do you think that your king will be able to accept that we have stolen you from him? You are the greatest and deepest symbol of his kingdom; even if he does not _like _you, you are nonetheless everything that he holds dear. If he does nothing to get you back, how can he ever sit upon his throne or wear his crown again? How can he be called King of England if he allows us to hold you? For his own sake, for his rank and reputation, I assure you that he _will _give us whatever we ask for."

"And what of this?" England asked sharply, nodding towards the gun. "You ought to know that you cannot take me prisoner with _that_."

"Very well," Jefferson agreed; and he lowered the gun, still meeting England's gaze. "But I must still ask you to cooperate."

"You cannot make me," England said lightly. "I could rend you in twain if I wished."

"Yes, you certainly can make petulant threats upon my person," Jefferson replied. "But this is our last hope - the only way we have of making Britain listen. If we do not succeed, you will lose America and I can make you no promises about what will happen to us or to him. You are perfectly aware of that, England."

England looked at him sullenly.

"And what would you wish them to hear?" he asked at length.

"After what the colonists have done tonight," Jefferson said, "I have no hope in my heart that Great Britain will have any desire to keep the colonies. It was an issue of money in the first place - and now look at the damage they have caused." He shook his head. "I fear we simply have no choice but to bow to Britain's wish and declare ourselves as independent - but they _cannot_ abandon us with no financial aid or military training. We will disappear as Roanoke did. Our demands are enough funding to finance the running of the thirteen colonies for the next three years and a tax upon all exports which go out of North America. If we do not have these allowances, we will be bled dry within a year and left to rot."

"No!" England snapped. "If you are so sure that His Majesty will do anything you ask for in return for me, demand that they keep the colonies - or at least sell them to France. America will not survive on his own, not yet. He is too young, too inexperienced-"

"That is what I _would _have demanded," Jefferson interrupted coolly, "had the colonists not gone and destroyed half the town. Even _I _would not expect Britain to pay for the damage they have wrought. Now we have no choice but to accept a bad lot. You must understand that, England."

"Propose that they be sold to France and America entrusted to France's care, then," England replied, "and I will comply with you. Otherwise I will not cooperate."

Jefferson kneaded at his brow.

"Very well," he sighed. "I will propose it, though I do not expect much to come of it. I do not see France's government wanting anything to do with rebellious colonists that even Britain cannot control. Now come along, we must imprison you."

"I do not care about the colonists," England said sharply. "Not after they have burned my flag. All I consider is that America be cared for. If France will take him, I will be satisfied."

"You do not consider that we would take care of him," Jefferson said, leading England across the street to the door of the tall redbrick Massachusetts Town House. "That _I_, at least, would honour him."

"Of course not," England replied as the door was opened; he was pushed inside the dark building, at which he turned to Thomas Jefferson, observing him in the crack of the door with Boston burning at his back. "You are a human - the same as them all, Mr Jefferson. You will only use him for your own gains, just as tonight you have used me."

* * *

America gave birth close to midnight and sobbed for a long while afterwards, quivering and exhausted in the chair. He fiercely batted the baby away when the midwife tried to place it in his arms and ignored her when she implored him to take it. Two footmen moved him to the bed to let him sleep, Mrs Carson deciding that he was simply too drained to want to have anything to do with the child; and she washed it clean and wrapped it in a blanket, tucking it in next to him. America turned his back on it and went to sleep.

The midwife left with her wage and her birthing chair and the house fell silent. America slept like the dead for a few hours and then, inexplicably, found himself wide awake as the clock crept close to four. He sat up, brushing his stringy hair back from his face, and breathed for a long moment. England wasn't back - he knew it instinctively.

He knew, also, that Boston still did not rest. He was America - a colony, yes, but his blood nonetheless ran as his rivers did, his skin cracked as did his earth. He coud feel that Boston was burning.

He leaned over and lit the candle at the bedside. His entire body ached, his spine and his thighs and all of the muscles in his middle, but as a rule he healed far quicker than a human and thought dully that it could be worse.

(Not the birth, though. That had been the most horrendous thing he had ever been through in his entire life. He was happy to be celibate for the rest of his days if it prevented him from ever having to do it again.)

Reaching for the ribbon coiled on the table, he combed his fingers through his matted hair and quickly tied it back in a clumsy bow. He paused, breathing again, and glanced down at the newborn bundled in the blanket at his side. It was asleep, tiny fists curled near its thin shock of blonde hair.

He didn't even know what gender it was, what colour eyes it had. He prodded at it, watching it squirm at his touch, and sighed. He felt no rush of love for it, no maternal instinct whatsoever. Looking at it, even though he had carried it for nine months, though he had laboured for agonising hours to give birth to it, it didn't feel as though it belonged to him at all.

He slipped out of the bed, stumbling a little and grasping onto one of posters. His legs quivered in protest and his entire body felt strange - lighter, of course, but empty, deflated, sagging, left only with the fat he had piled on during his pregnancy. He felt disgusting, warped out of shape and sweaty, stinking of blood and afterbirth, and dressed quickly in the first of the clothes to have been let out a little for him, thankful to cover himself up.

Coming to the bed, he lifted the baby gently so as not to wake it, cradling it to his chest. It felt odd, unnatural, a bit alien to be holding something so small and delicate. It was so quiet, though, and didn't stir when he began to move across the room, even with its tiny cheek pressed against where Boston pounded in its mother's terrified heart.

It seemed that there would be no rest until there was a war - and America could not abide by there being any more weapons to hand.

* * *

Aaaaaaaand I'll update this chapter with the rest when I crawl home after a thirteen hour flight and write the final few segments. T.T


	4. The Sun Is In The Sky: Final

Ughhhh, final part of the Revolutionary War/Georgian-period segment at long last! The delay in getting this out wasn't just the pissing about in Hong Kong (which was lovely, thank you to all those who wished me well! :3); for some reason I started some _other _multi-chapter Cardverse fic and then also… this was just hard-going to write. Really it was. I actually feel quite exhausted. DX

Thanks to: **MuSiC HaTs, Undying Angel, ilovesmilingfools, NightRaven511, too lazy to log in, Lamashtar Two** and **Vera-Sama**!

The Sun Is In The Sky: IV

He was waiting; his head tipped back against the crack of the double doors with their ornate lock like a belt buckle, sitting with his hands clasped in his lap and his legs straight out before him, crossed at the ankles. It was cold, his shoulders hunched under his travelling cloak, and half-dark, the glow of Boston ablaze tapping at the windowpanes so as to make shadows sweep beneath the eyes of the portraits lining the hall, hollowing out their faces. The spiral staircase beginning its ascent further down loomed twistedly from its vigil in the manner of some great Grecian serpent.

England had been locked up before. He did not remember most of it, though it been only something like five months, a human punishment to fit a human crime, or so he reasoned. Subsequently he did not take kindly to being confined, nor anything which replicated the matter (such as the vanity fashion of girdles and stay-laces). How typical, really, that as such he would develop the thoroughly-human response of claustrophobia, finding even the cabins of the crossing ships to be a test.

This was the first he had actually been imprisoned since. He found this to be unlike America's people, however, and had faith enough in Jefferson that this was a last resort, a final move of desperation. It was likely, he agreed, that he would be enough of a ransom to the king's pride to ensure the promise of a better financial deal for the colonies. Bitterness would likely sour the relations, that was unavoidable, but England's government didn't involve him much in politics anyway - he was a liability, a weakness, emotional and selfish with more to lose than land or a title. They had no time for such creatures in parliament, especially not since the Civil War when he had sided with the doomed Royalists.

(They hadn't punished him for that, for picking the wrong side. They'd thought that watching the king he had believed in beheaded for treason was punishment enough.)

No, provided he was still allowed access to America himself - better still if France took on the burden - then nothing that mattered need change at all. It was this, and only this, which stilled England where he sat; though he was deeply agitated at having been locked up in this building whose walls shook with the colonists' rage, his fingernails gnawing worriedly at his clothing, his heart pounding at the memory of that prior imprisonment.

He stayed for America's sake.

* * *

Curled up on the floor beneath his travelling cloak, fitfully asleep with the sound of the conflict ever a dull roar beyond the windows, England roused himself at the heavy lock at last unclasping. The light that fell in now was the dull greyish-pink of dawn, perhaps the very earliest hour of it, and his bones creaked and ached as he straightened - kneeling up in the middle of the hard-floored hallway with his hair wild and his cloak swamping the power in his deceptive body. The doors opened to the dawn and Thomas Jefferson was back, ashen-faced, all the confidence in last night's plan wrung right out of him.

"He has done something terrible," the man said in a hoarse voice.

"Who?" England stood up, smoothing his hair distractedly. The roles had changed now; somehow, subtly, England could taste it, men at the mercy of monsters once again.

He tried to keep the predator out of his step as he approached.

"Adams?" he pressed curiously.

"No," Jefferson said distractedly; and for a long moment he appeared unable to even meet England's eyes.

"You test my patience, Mr Jefferson," England sighed.

"Oh, stow your threats, you beast!" Jefferson snapped, at last losing the composure England had always merited him for. His head rose and he held England's gaze with iron resolve. "_America _has done something awful. _Our _America, do you see? _Your _America, if you will."

His temper frosting over, England folded his arms.

"America is at home," he said. "You yourself left him there in my company, at which I entrusted him to the care of the midwife. Even if the birth is over-"

"Boston is burning," Jefferson interrupted. "How can you have expected him to sit still?"

"And yet the atrocity of which you speak is not the burning of Boston?"

Jefferson laughed coldly.

"What does Boston matter now?"

England lost his patience.

"Get out of my way," he said icily.

He shoved Jefferson aside, stepping out into the decimated street. Boston was in utter ruin, many of the buildings little more than charred and skeletal remains, the others which remained intact with broken windows and bare boards where their signs had been, all marked with the scar of looting. The air was bitter with smoke and there was an abandoned cannon in the centre of the square with a dead man sprawled near it, his flocked coat trodden in with mud and encrusted blood from the wound that had killed him - the rest of the dead had been lined up on either side of the street. It didn't look as though anybody had won.

England idly wondered which of these crimes America was responsible for as he crossed the street. Humans were so dramatic, so cryptic - of course Jefferson wanted to be _poetic _about it. England was appalled, of course, at the damage, at the number of dead, but it was not a sight that he was unused to. Pity these humans their mortality, that they could only measure these atrocities by what they had seen in their own lifetimes. England had seen worse than this. He would see worse, he knew.

There was a crowd gathered about the scaffold which earlier had been piled with burning British flags. This mob was, contrary to the manner of such gathering, eerily quiet, instead clustered close around the scaffold with the appearance of sickened judgement. Amongst them were all classes of colonist, women and children and working men and nobles and rebels, many of them carrying English guns no doubt looted from the gift-ships; and beyond the crowd England could see some po-faced, Puritan-descended halfwit lauding on about lost values and what this unspeakable act represented.

England failed to see what this had to do with America and turned away from the crowd; he came face-to-face with Franklin, who sported an ugly bruise to the left side of his face.

"Dr Franklin!" In spite of his anger at these men for having lured him into their political trap, England touched a shocked hand to the old man's shoulder. "What happened to you?"

"Mr Revere and his men fired a cannon at one of the ships in the harbour," Franklin said tiredly. "I was fortunate enough to be hit by wood shrapnel at a better angle than poor Mr Adams, who was knocked out. Mr Revere was arrested by the British Army shortly after, thank goodness."

"Where is America?" England pressed, waving this tale of woe aside rather heartlessly. "Jefferson said-"

"Upon the scaffold." It came out heavy-hearted; Franklin shot him an exhausted, pleading look. "I can do nothing for him. He is at the mercy of his people now."

"And what crime, exactly, did he commit?" England spat. "The sin of bearing a child out of wedlock? I am quite done, I tell you, with such human trivialit-"

"Were it only that." Franklin really looked rather ashen-faced. "England, he threw the child into Boston Harbor and drowned it."

"He…" England stared at Franklin, the words of his own language which flowed in him as did his blood utterly failing him. "…The… the _harbour_?"

"The men were throwing the weapons overboard in protest," Franklin said quietly, despairingly, "and here came America to join them, in his arms the child which he had given birth to in our absence. In front of all of the colonists he committed this evil - perhaps he thought he was rallying to their cause by drowning the baby that _you _had fathered." And, helpless, "I…I know not his motive."

Numb with the rinse of horror which seared its way through his every atom at Franklin's words, England turned his back upon the old man - looking towards the surge of the crowd before plunging into its midst, fighting his way with an unkempt savagery through their heave. They were not his people - or barely his, anyway, with thinned-out blood - but he could feel their revulsion prickling on his skin at his contact with them. He forcibly parted some jeering youths in acquired, ragged Red-coats as he broke through the front of the mob, standing before the scaffold to settle his rage upon the human who dared to judge America for his despicable actions.

His own revulsion, he felt, could come later.

The man - a pastor with an old Mayflower bloodline - paused upon England's entrance to the scene, noting him with derision.

"The English noble," he said tautly, for this was all he knew him as. "How good of you to come at long last."

England ignored him, looking instead at America, who was curled limply on his side upon the scaffold, quivering, more or less at this man's feet. His clothing was torn, his hair loose and his skin bruised and bloodied with the wide welts which came, England recognised, from being beaten with the spine of the King James Bible. The pastor, of course, held one under his arm, gold-ridged and ruthless.

"America," England said sharply.

America raised his head. His lip was bleeding and there was an angry, bloodied bump over his left eyebrow. His blue eyes clouded with relieved recognition at the sight of England.

"England," he said weakly, reaching out his hand across the scaffold-

The pastor slammed his foot down on his forearm, making America shriek in pain and coil in on himself again, shaking. There was a ripple in the crowd at this, their approval swelling at the small of England's spine; and America did nothing, only lay there with his wrist beneath a human's boot.

"Filth," the pastor hissed. "You would call out for his help when you murdered an innocent child barely hours ago?"

America didn't utter a sound - which only served to anger the righteous pastor more, for he pressed harder still with his heel on America's thin bones, enough to force a sob of agony from his heaving chest. At this, England pulled himself onto the scaffold and was upon the man in an instant, seizing him by the throat. Both his speed and his strength far outranked that of humans and concealing it to wear their mask, as he so often did, was no longer of any use. He pushed the barest of inches and the pastor stumbled backwards, righting himself only as England inserted himself firmly and furiously between he and America.

"Whatever his sin, you will now answer to me," England said icily. "And I will not prostrate myself before you, of that you may be quite sure."

America, revolting in his weakness, cowered behind him, clutching at the hem of his cloak.

"I had to," he bleated. "I could not expect them to understand but I _had _to."

The pastor gave an angry snort, clutching his bible tighter as he looked to England.

"Sir, if you have any scrap of decency about you," he said icily, "you will join us in the condemnation of this vile wretch. He stole away from its mother a newborn which had committed no sin other than to be born upon the eve of our revolution and in cold blood murdered it as a horrific and ill-judged political statement."

"_I had to_!" America wailed, clinging to England's legs. "There was no political motive, this I swear!"

England was himself angry and sickened and confused by America's reported actions - to say nothing of his strange, desperate reason for having done so. Nonetheless, he did not move an inch, shielding America as he clutched beseechingly at him.

"Murder is murder, no matter the motive," the pastor said gravely. "You cannot expect to walk free after committing so grievous a crime."

"I have done nothing wrong!" America sobbed. "Th-they will not understand, nobody will ever understand wh-why I did it, but… but I-"

"Enough, America," England interrupted impatiently. "Your words do your defence no credit."

"He cannot go free," the pastor insisted again. "The society that our forefathers built is on the verge of collapsing. In our anger we have stripped Boston to its barest bones. We have rioted, looted, killed in the street, torn apart our fledgling nation at the seams. It will be the final nail in the premature coffin if we do nothing about _this _depravity." He cleared his throat. "After all, he did it in front of us all. The murder was a spectacle, a statement. He _wanted _us to see him drown the child."

"And what would your punishment be?" England asked icily. "Beating him to death with your Holy Book?"

The pastor pursed his lips into a tight line.

"You will forgive me," he said at length, "but this matter does not concern English nobles. You have so little care for everything else, after all. I must ask you to stand aside."

The crowd rippled in agreement and England hissed under his breath, glancing from the colonists to the pastor. He did not like being cornered by humans. It made him want to start killing them - an echo, perhaps, of their own bloodlust. Nations were only educated in war, after all, because humans had so lovingly taught them.

England stared down the pastor, ready to rip him in half if he so much as inched towards America; the pastor knew this, it was clear, and he made no motion. There was sudden tumult in the heart of the mob, however, and a surge forward by the youths in crimson coats; they scrambled half upon the scaffold and seized America, dragging him with a start from England and pulling him off the scaffold into the crowd. He was so shocked that he barely even cried out, disappearing beneath the swell of angry colonists as England as last whirled from the pastor and watched him be swallowed up. England was after him in an instant, fighting his way back into the surging sea of filthy and bloodied rebels scrapping amongst each other and ducking beneath to find America sprawled in the mud, barely reacting as he was kicked by a pigtailed boy no older than seventeen. England grabbed this boy by the neck and threw him headlong, breaking bones; and others were then upon his back as he bent to pull America up, knocking him to his knees with the butts of stolen muskets. A foot came against his shoulder, the heel grinding into the bone, and England utterly lost it, twisting to drag this human who dared step upon him down to his level and then seizing him about the throat.

"No, England!" America grabbed his arm, hauling at him in an attempt to break his hold. "England, stop, _please_!"

"No," England hissed, elbowing him off. "I cannot _stand _to be civil to these monsters a moment longer."

He tore out the man's throat with his teeth; and the brawling crowd fell silent and parted, repelled by the splatter of gore, shocked into stillness. America gave a defeated, miserable shudder as England wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up and came limply when England pulled him up by his elbow.

"Lay a hand on either of us," England said coldly, looking around at the terrified colonists, "and I will kill every last one of you."

He shrugged off his muddied travelling cloak and slung it around America's shoulders, drawing it close about him. America wouldn't meet his gaze, looking fixedly at the ground - just beyond the man England had murdered.

"_This_!" the pastor wailed suddenly from the scaffold. "This was the kind of terrible sin that our forefathers sought to put behind them when they first left England! The Day of Reckoning has come upon us!"

"Yes, well," England replied primly, looking up at the white-faced man, "it cannot be helped that humans are so very good at destroying themselves."

"_Enough_." Thomas Jefferson appeared at the head of the parted crowd, Franklin not far behind him. They both looked disgusted. "Spare us your wisdom." He narrowed his eyes at England, gesturing with his hand. "Get out of here. You have said and done quite enough."

"Very good, gentlemen." England bowed sarcastically to them and marched America away, the deflated teenager tripping lamely after him.

The mob bristled at their backs, unmoving, seething, terrified. They had seen far more than they had wanted.

* * *

It was a long walk back to the house. England had hoped to find a horse loose in the wake of the mayhem but they came upon no such convenience, leaving them having to hack it on foot. They did not speak to one another, America's wrist limp beneath the clamp of England's hand as he was all but dragged along - in shock, perhaps, or too guilty to even fathom defending himself.

England, naturally, had nothing to say to him. He still had the taste of blood in his mouth.

The house, he found upon their return, was bereft of servants. They had no doubt fled in the night, seeing the orange glow shrouding Boston Harbour from the windows and leaving to join their families, to join the mobs tearing Boston to the ground. England was glad of their absence, in no mood for their panicked admissions that they had found America missing that morning. It didn't matter, anyway. They wouldn't be staying long.

"You need a bath," England said crisply as they stood in the empty entrance hall; America huddled pathetically in the travelling cloak, staring at the floor. "I will heat one up for you."

America simply gave an apathetic nod and did nothing else; England impatiently steered him up the stairs and into the bedroom, last used as the scene for that awful childbirth. It still stank of stale blood and sweat and afterbirth, cloistered and shut-up, and England coughed a little on it as he shut the shut door behind them.

"Go and sit on the bed," he ordered flatly, pushing America away. "This will take me a while."

He turned his back on his teenager to go to the fireplace and get the flames started, glad that at least the coal scuttle was stocked up. America stood helplessly beside the bed for a while before finally sinking onto it, his gaze on the floorboards all the while. England didn't look at him as he left the room to get the bathtub, dragging it back in and putting it before the fire to start warming it up.

"I'm going to go and fetch the water in," he said. America didn't answer him. He hadn't said a single thing since vainly begging England not to kill that colonist.

All sorts of ugly things were seeping out and neither of them knew what to say.

It took England four trips out to the well with the bucket to fill the bath halfway, which he deemed to be enough; in the silence of the task he had questioned, briefly, how America could have done something so monstrous - sweet darling good-hearted America, who was not cruel by nature, who bandaged the wings of crippled birds and put out scraps for small animals when the winter set in and played with lonely children. No, England did not think there was a bad bone in the boy's body-

So how, _how_, could he have drowned his own child? Had it been out of fear? Had he been coerced? Had it been an accident?

But he came upon no answer and it unsettled him to chase the thought any further, putting it firmly out of his mind to concentrate on the menial task of filling the bath. It was only when he was done and the water had warmed comfortably and he ordered America to come to the fireside that it came crawling back into his brain, immovable and horrifying as he watched the teenager undress. He had been so used to his belly swollen like a ripened fruit that to see him pale and sagging, his bodied plied out and rinsed through by labour and left clutching nothing, made him feel ill with a sense of loss. All would be right if only America instead held the baby - the troublesome unneeded baby - in his arms.

But his arms were empty and so were his eyes, his expression, everything about him. He sat in the water with his back to England, his shoulders bowed, and did nothing. England had been helping America bathe for the past two months - with his body so heavy it had been difficult for him to do it on his own - but this wasn't the same thing at all. The pregnant America had chattered happily to him, washing his own hair and everything else that he could reach, and really only needing England's assistance to get in and out of the tub; now he did nothing at all, made no move to do anything for himself or ask England for help.

England fetched the jug from the bedside and knelt next to the bath, rolling up his sleeves. They didn't have time for this. Picking up the rag and the soap, he began to scrub America down, washing off the mud and sweat and blood and God only knew what else. America flinched a little as England rubbed with the rag at a few of the Bible welts but otherwise he made no motion, no sound at all. He didn't even squirm unhelpfully the way he usually did when England washed his hair. The leftover fat floating beneath his skin jiggled grotesquely, his sagging flesh gleaming, and he leaked milk over his belly when England washed his chest. He wouldn't look up.

England left him sitting forlornly in the tub when he rose to get him a towel and some clean clothes; his throat ached with the want to speak, to ask America _why_, why he had done it, why he had struggled through that dreadful birth only to have nothing to show for it.

But he couldn't do it. The words lay flat at the bottom of his throat like deserting soldiers.

"Dry yourself off and get dressed," he said, leaving the folded towel and clothing next to the fireplace. "I am going to make us some breakfast."

He rose and headed across the bedroom towards the door, his fingertips just grazing the old brass handle when there was a sudden shift in the water, the sound of it gently lapping at the sides of the tin tub as America turned-

"You ripped out his throat with your teeth."

America's voice wasn't accusing; it wasn't confused or frightened or angry. He said it blandly, woodenly, as nothing but a fact.

"Yes." England wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, not turning to him. "Yes, I did. You… you must forgive me. Sometimes it is terribly difficult for me to control what I am."

* * *

England, of course, did not like humans very much. He had had soft spots for the odd one or two and, in the naïveté of his youth, had regarded them with a companionable awe, thinking that he owed them something (most of all his respect). But he had been treated cruelly by them, punished for being what he was, for breaking their rules, and he no longer looked upon them with such kindness. He had killed them before in the froth of battle, when war heated his blood and he could not help it.

They were, after all, creatures of conflict. They were bloodthirsty at heart and sometimes the mask was too much to bear. England often vied with the desire to kill humans who rankled him, stuck-ups like Mulbury who judged him by human terms, who treated him like dirt - though he restrained himself because he existed in human society and was therefore governed by its laws. It would be so _easy _to kill someone like Mulbury but it would bring him so much trouble that, if he could control the urge, he soothed himself into reasoning that it simply wasn't worth it-

Human reasoning for human rules.

But sometimes, _sometimes_, it was too much to take - as when war roared in the back of his skull. This was their affliction, one of the many things which made them inhuman (and yet the least of their bridges); though England's bloodlust was not as bad as that of some of the other, older European nations. France had eaten Prussian soldiers before and Spain had picked off English pirates in a similar manner. It was in them as the basest of instincts, almost animal, to turn on humans when humans turned on each other.

(Perhaps that, then, had been America's reason.)

Standing over the stove, absently stirring the porridge bubbling in the old copper pot, England sprinkled in a pinch of salt, perhaps because he could still taste it in his mouth. America drifted into the kitchen doorway, dressed in a plain brown tunic, grey breeches and a coarse-weave shirt, his yellow hair fluffy from being rubbed dry with a towel. England turned to him, gesturing to the table.

"Sit down, love," he said quietly. "Breakfast is almost ready."

America lingered in the doorway a moment longer before going to the table and sinking heavily into one of the tall-backed chairs. England watched him over his shoulder for a breath before returning his attention to the porridge, which was beginning to burn at the edges. He took it off the fire and poured it into two bowls, bringing them with silent ceremony to the dining table. It was accompanied, of course, by tea, which he had done a better job of.

America played with his porridge, dragging the spoon through it miserably. England, between bites, regarded him with impatience.

"America, eat your breakfast, please," he said tersely.

America obeyed at length, doing so in silence, and still the morning was made of orders. England sipped at his tea and watched America do the same, mirroring him. Their manners, their movements, their habits, were like-for-like. England had taught him everything he knew.

Silence.

"Are you not going to ask why I did it?" America said suddenly, dropping spoon back into the bowl with a clatter.

England met his gaze, pausing, waiting. America's face was white and exhausted - dry-eyed, though his voice cracked. The quiet had become too much for him.

"I will ask," England replied, "when I think you are fit to give me an answer."

America said nothing to this, looking down at his half-finished breakfast. His slender shoulders sagged inwards, gold hair sliding over their descent.

"Please," he begged, "I… I do not want to you to hate me."

"I do not," England replied calmly. "I shall never hate you, America. Please remember that while you ready your answer."

America nodded, though he did not look up.

"I thought… th-that you would be angry," he went on, his voice growing ever smaller.

"Perhaps I will be when I understand why you did such a terrible thing," England said.

"Oh, but it was _not _terrible!" America moaned in an agonised voice. "I fear you will never understand!"

"Well, when you are ready, you must explain yourself to me. We will go from there."

America exhaled, quiet for a long moment.

"Better yet that I never speak of it," he murmured at length.

"I will not judge you as humans do," England promised. "As the humans _did_."

"No, not because of that," America sighed. "For your safety as much as mine, England."

England watched him, frowning. America rubbed absently at the ivy ring on his hand, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He seemed done with his half-eaten porridge and his cooled tea, no longer regarding either with any interest.

"For _my _safety," England repeated warily.

"Yes." America got up, pushing in his chair. "Please, if you will excuse me."

"Of course."

England sipped at the last dregs of his own tea as he watched America go to the kitchen doorway - where he paused for a moment before glancing back at England, his gold hair haloing behind his head, static in the morning sun.

"Thank you," America said, "for saving me."

England gave a nod.

"Well," he began, "of course you are w-"

"I am weak," America interrupted, "and a coward. I suppose you felt moved to pity." He turned away again. "You ought to have allowed them to kill me."

* * *

He hadn't cried. He hadn't shed a single tear over what he had done. Lying on the long sofa in the drawing room, exhausted from his short night spent on the floor of the Massachusetts Town House, England stared up at the plaster ceiling rose with the ugly thought gnawing at the edges of his mind like a starved rat. America was quite emotional and got upset rather easily - he had sobbed, after all, at almost every mention that he might be separated from England if the British government got its way.

But he was curiously and defiantly dry over the deliberate drowning of their baby, which - upon thought - made England somewhat uneasy. It simply wasn't like him.

England drifted off in the mid-morning sun, the silence of the empty house an inverted lullaby, and drowsily half-woke some time later as he acknowledged America clambering onto the couch next to him. England sleepily shifted to make room for him and America cuddled into his arms, settling; England baited him to sleep with a hand in his hair, listening for a hitch of breath, waiting for the subtle wetness of quiet tears.

But there was nothing.

He fell into another fit of sleep, America's cheek pillowed in the crook of his shoulder, and stirred again come early afternoon with a crick in his neck. He rubbed it, listening to the usual creaks of the empty house with his eyes closed; America was still cuddled contentedly against him and, after a moment, England eased out from beneath him, leaving him curled up against the cushions. He went to splash some water on his face and make some tea, which he brought back to the drawing room on a tray with bread and cheese and some plain biscuits. America roused himself at this and they ate sitting on the rug either side of the coffee table.

"When we are done here," England said, methodically breaking a biscuit into quarters and arranging the pieces around his saucer, "I would like you to go upstairs and retrieve any small belongings which you might want to take with you."

America blinked at him, his blue eyes bright and curious.

"…Take where?" he asked.

"To New York. We are leaving tonight. A change of clothes would not go amiss, either."

"I…" America seemed to have no answer to this, looking down at his tea. "Alright."

"We will have other belongings sent for if returning to Boston becomes impossible," England went on crisply. "Do not fret over that."

"No, I do not… concern myself with that," America replied. "It is just… w-well, I have always lived in Boston-"

"I know," England cut in, "and I do not like to uproot you - but this situation is getting out of hand. The rebellion is likely to spread, to be perfectly honest; and if it reaches New York, we will depart from Manhattan for Britain."

America looked up again.

"Britain?" he repeated. "B-but I… you said I am not-"

"I cannot be expected to abandon you," England said icily. "I will not leave you to the mercy of humans - not even the well-meaning ones like Franklin and Jefferson, though I use the term laughably."

America nodded, rubbing self-consciously at his chest. He was leaking again.

"Perhaps a _few _changes of clothes would be in order," England amended quietly. "Shirts, at least."

America lowered his head, biting his lip.

"I apologise," he said softly. "I know… that I am disgusting-"

"_Enough _of that, please." England's tone was impatient, pithy, as he rose and picked up the tray. "You may wallow in self-pity in New York. For now, buck yourself up."

He left America in the drawing room as he descended to the cold kitchen to wash up the debris of their lunch. These were all very banal things, hateful boring little human necessities, washing up and packing clothes and fleeing and hiding. They, with history and literature and language bursting in their veins, shouldn't have to be subjected to the trappings of the dull life humans had no option but to throw themselves into headfirst.

Of course, history and literature and language - and all other things besides, mathematics and science and wishery - were all human products; without humans nations would be nothing at all, for borders would not exist to separate them (perhaps instead one great sentient mass, a gentle co-existence of eyes and brains with nothing to squabble over). Humans, then, were quite necessary.

Oh, but how England tired of them - and how often. He wearied that he made so much effort, even unconsciously, to mimic them; and now America was making that kind of effort too, _now _with utterly inept timing, when he was weak and needful and could not afford to have England despise him.

* * *

He had some clothes, his best books, parchment, ink and two quills neatly packed into a leather satchel, ready to go. Halfway through changing, England inspected America's own spoils - three shirts, a pair of breeches, two books and a grubby white ragdoll rabbit with real jewels for eyes - laid out on the bed. He was secretly pleased to see the rabbit, which was worse for wear but had been made for America by England himself when America had been very small. The jewels were mismatched rubies, differing sizes and cuts and shades, but they still blinked brilliantly in the dusk like the angry stars studding America's chubby ring finger.

"Alright," England said, nodding. "Those things are satisfactory. Pack them up and we will leave on the half-hour. I took the liberty of preparing the horses earlier this afternoon."

America, sitting on the bed tying his hair back, cast his eyes over the items as though picking for a fault that England had missed. He found none and slipped his possessions into his own satchel, throwing the canvas strap over his shoulder. He buzzed with an electric anticipation, eager to leave; perhaps he saw this as a grand adventure. Both of his books were of that sort.

England looped his silk stay-laces around his neck as he adjusted his waistcoat. They would wear their best clothes to New York, he had decided, and he had money enough to buy them more when they arrived in the city. It would be a good start to leave a lasting and proper impression as refugees from bloodied Boston.

England was deliberating over his stay-laces, which he had feared ever since being locked up by his own people, when the sound of the door being pounded upon sang throughout the silent house. America spooked, winding himself around the bedpost, and England hesitated in horror until he considered breathlessly that it might be France.

"Stay up here," he ordered; and he left the room, with America to guard their supplies, to scramble down the hallway and pad the swell of the stairs to the entrance hall, which groaned with the empty effort of the visitor knocking again.

He hoped dearly that it _would _be France - because he was afraid and making the movements of a cornered animal, he felt. France said ridiculous things, pointless things, because he was emptier and more joyless than he pretended to be, but he was excellent all the same at smoothing out the wrinkles in England's ego. England was all too willing to take comfort from France without giving him anything in return (except for sex, but they both knew that France didn't even get much joy out of _that_).

_The stables are empty, _he almost said as he opened the door, _so you can fuck me there - but make it quick because I have botched things so badly that I need to run. I know I promised you that I would not but-_

It was William Mulbury. England shrank back, the scarlet stay-laces swinging.

"Magistrate Mulbury," he gritted out, his hands on the doorframe, "this is hardly the best time."

"Do spare me," Mulbury replied archly. He was carrying a musket. "I have been to Philadelphia on business these past few days - and what do I find upon my return?"

"Boston burning to the ground," England supplied dully. "That had nothing to do with me _or _America."

"Oh, goodness, that is mere collateral damage," Mulbury snapped. "We expected something of the sort. After all, the original Englishmen who came to the New World to begin with were troublemakers, were they not?"

"I suppose so," England said. He shrugged. "At least they have stopped hunting witches."

"Yes, well, I rather think we have better things to hunt these days," Mulbury snarled; he elbowed his way past England into the entrance hall, the musket clattering. "You might like the know that the riots have spread in all directions: Philadelphia, Pittsburg, New York, Providence-"

"New York?" England interrupted faintly.

"Indeed." Mulbury's tone was cold. "Planning a getaway, were you?" He snorted. "I think you'd do better to think along the lines of Governor Gage - he is leaving for the mainland this evening."

"Then that is what we will do," England said, his eyes narrowing at the musket. "And please do not think that you will stop us. I tore out a man's throat today."

"Yes, I had heard from Mr Jefferson." Mulbury ran his hand over the musket, lifting it. "Goodness me, you _are _turning out to be a nasty piece of work, aren't you?" He sneered. "You and your bastard slut both."

England stiffened.

"You," he breathed, "will _not _use-"

"Oh, I apologise," Mulbury cut in sharply. "Do you truly think that my choice of words is the greatest of sins presented here? Might I remind you - since you seem to have forgotten - that the unwed slattern _drowned _the child in Boston Harbor? Did he mean to cover up his sin or is he simply morally deficient on all counts?"

England seized Mulbury by his cravat, twisting.

"Mr Mulbury, I would be so very glad to relieve you of your tongue," he hissed, "or better yet, the breath to use it."

Mulbury certainly paled a shade but he stood his ground, taking England's wrist.

"Are you not satisfied?" he asked frostily. "The blood fills Boston's gutters as it is."

"Says the man who comes to my door carrying a gun," England threw back at him. "What Puritan mission have you entrusted yourself with, sir?"

"Mercy upon the whore," Mulbury replied archly, "though I suspect his soul, if you monsters even _have _them, is beyond saving. Still… a quick shot would be better than being torn apart in the street by frightened, angry rebels, do you not agree, England?"

"Ah, such splendid justification," England sighed impatiently. He gave a cold little laugh. "Frankly, Mr Mulbury, I should like to see you or the enraged masses even _try_."

"He cannot go unpunished!" Mulbury seethed, wrenching himself from England's grasp. "Surely even _you _see this!"

He skittered back a pace or two, levelling the musket at England's chest, and they stood for a moment with the atmosphere static and dangerous between them - England with his eyes on the gun.

"England?"

America's voice was accompanied by a creak at the top of the stairs; and both England and Mulbury looked to the top of the staircase, where America was standing with one hand on the banister.

"America!" England turned towards him angrily. "I told you to stay in the room!"

"And here comes the lamb," Mulbury whispered, aiming the musket-

England flung himself into Mulbury, knocking him off-balance as the musket went off with a thunderous _bang_; the bullet splintered part of the stairwell, chunks of varnished wood showering onto the marble below. America did not so much as flinch, watching England pin Mulbury as the musket went spinning across the entrance hall. Mulbury twisted, elbowing England in the ribs and knocking him off, and with that he began to crawl towards the musket, his hand outstretched-

England rolled over, snapped the stay-lace cords from about his shoulders and sprang after Mulbury like a cat, slamming him down once more. Mulbury struggled, trying to throw him off as before, and England wrapped the stay-laces firmly around the magistrate's neck. He settled across Mulbury's back as he strained for the musket and wrenched with all of his strength upon the silk cords, putting all of his anger and disgust and hatred into the motion. Mulbury twisted feebly as he was strangled, his feet in their patent buckled shoes scraping at the marble-

"England!" America said again, this time more urgently; he started down the stairs-

"Get our things, please," England said calmly, looping both cords around his hand and pulling back tighter still. It wasn't much effort to strangle a human, especially a weak man like this for whom only laws and legislation were weapons.

"_No_!" America reached the bottom of the stairs, though paused again uncertainly. "England, stop this! Enough killing, _please_!"

"This man is a danger to us both." England gave a final tug on the stay-laces as Mulbury's twitching hand fell at last to the marble. "He has made it his habit."

"You mustn't kill humans!" America cried. "You simply _mustn't_!"

"My God, boy, but you are sickeningly pious at times," England spat. He let go of the cords, though not at America's request. Mulbury was dead, at which England was satisfied to rise. "Really, I know not where you get it from."

America's blue eyes narrowed.

"Neither do I," he said coldly.

"In the face of what you yourself have done," England replied dangerously, "I will thank you to hold your tongue."

America crossly looked away, silent.

"Now fetch our things at once," England went on, disentangled his stay-laces from Mulbury's throat. "I will bring the horses around. We must go instead to the harbour - New York is no longer on the cards, I fear."

"Boston Harbor?" America looked at him guardedly. "And where are we headed hence?"

"To the mainland, of course."

America folded his arms petulantly.

"I will not go," he said. "I will be hated there-"

"You will go," England interrupted angrily, "where I can keep you safe and with me. At present this is our only option bar fleeing into the uncharted West."

"Could we not-"

"Go _at once_, America!"

Losing his patience, England did not wait for an answer, stepping over the magistrate's corpse to the cloakroom, where he retrieved his red uniform coat and threw it on. He banged out of the front door, not shooting America a backwards glance. Really, he had hoped that America would be past the tempestuous mood swings now that he had given birth but apparently it was not to be…

He fetched the horses, which were already saddled, and brought them around to the courtyard; they pawed anxiously at the gravel as though they could sense the lethal mood in Boston, knew of England's desperation to away as soon as possible. They were good horses - a black mare which England favoured and a young chestnut male - and both the grooms and America himself had looked after them well. It was a pity that they would have to be left behind (but, England reasoned, they _were _good horses - someone would take them, surely, and see to it that they were cared for).

America at length appeared from the house, pulling the heavy doors behind him. He was carrying both satchels, sullenly handing one to England as he reached him. They mounted and moved off in silence, putting the staccato of hooves between them. England took the lead as they headed out into the deserted road, leaving the house behind them.

He understood that this was difficult for America - who had indeed lived only in Boston for all of his short life. But they couldn't stay here, ankle-deep and higher still in Boston's blood. He looked back at America, who was leaning in his saddle to watch his home slowly disappear, sinking into the wilderness of his land.

Ah, if only America understood-

If he stayed, he would be swallowed up just like the house.

* * *

Half of the Massachusetts Town House, England's prison of the previous night, lay in rubble, its innards vomited upon the street. The light of day, it seemed, had not quelled the rebels - and now the night drew close again and, with it, their madness. There was a great crowd at Boston Harbor, sending up an orange glow from the flames so many of them carried, and the dock was lined with a band of scarlet - the British Army, separating with the glint of muskets the colonists from the single ship still afloat and in one piece in the bay. The swelling water was littered with the corpses of the three other brigs, the ones which had borne guns and other weaponry as ill-fated gifts; two of them had been destroyed utterly and sunk to the shallow bottom of the harbour by cannon fire. The third, its masts splintered and lying in all directions like the legs of a spider, was drowning a slower death, aswarm with rebels looting it.

They left the horses at the fringes of the thinned crowd, England taking America's hand firmly and pulling him through to the front, where they faced the soldiers guarding the only viable ship. Now that they were closer, England could see that the line wasn't entirely comprised of the British Army - there were French soldiers here and there, too, with some mounted French cavalry further down.

A captain England knew by face approached, lowering his musket.

"Where is Governor Gage?" England asked him, keeping a tight hold on America's hand; he could feel the ring cold and hard against his palm.

"Not arrived yet, sir," the captain replied. "He has a few more things to put in order. The ship will sail on his arrival. …I assume you will be joining him?"

England nodded.

"I and the boy both," he said. "Part and let us on, please."

The captain's expression sullied.

"Ah, sir, I do apologise." He gave a grave shake of his head. "I cannot let the boy board. Strict orders."

England tightened his grasp upon America's hand, feeling him stiffen at his back.

"_Whose _orders, exactly?" he snapped, furious. "Gage's? Magistrate Mulbury's, perhaps?"

"Actually, they would be mine."

The voice, which England had not heard for quite a few years, was accompanied by the clatter of settling hooves, which were echoed a moment later by another set, and another and another. This man, as usual, had a loyal following.

"General Washington," England greeted him coolly, turning to him. He kept America close to his side and the teenager, in turn, shrank against him. "A pleasure, as usual."

Washington's response was a cold smile.

"Come now, I do not think that either of us believes that," he said. "Still, I suppose you and I only seem to cross paths in the midst of powder kegs."

"These are volatile lands," England replied gloomily, "and volatile times."

"Then you will understand why I gave my orders," Washington said keenly.

"Not entirely." England stepped in front of America completely, shielding him from Washington's view. The American general was flanked, on horseback, by Jefferson, Franklin and-

"I shall explain, then," France said silkily, stepping his white mare forwards. He, too, was in splendid military dress. "Though I should not need to - this was your idea, Angleterre, and you were adamant to push it upon both myself and Monsieur Jefferson."

He dismounted, swinging off the ornate saddle to stand before England; as usual, he looked terribly impressive, fiercely handsome and a little ethereal, like a doomed prince from a fairytale.

"You… you will take on the burden of the colonies?" England asked, reaching for France's hands. "You truly will, France?"

"Oui, mon cher," France replied; but he did not smile. "You need not worry your heart a moment longer. Amerique will be cared for, you have my word."

"It is official?" England pressed insistently.

France nodded.

"My governors and I have spoken with those who might become American counterparts," he said. "Our friends Monsieurs Jefferson and Adams, the good Dr Franklin and others such as Monsieur Hancock - and, of course, General Washington, who will act as Governor for the French United States… oui, oui, it is quite official."

England almost wilted with relief, squeezing France's hands.

"Thank you, France," he breathed. "I really cannot thank you _enough _for this, I fear." He turned to America, who was watching Washington rather guardedly. "America, we have been spared." He wrapped his arms around the boy, feeling him clutch tightly at him in return. "Nothing need change at all, my love. General Washington does well indeed to ensure that you stay where you belong."

"And you will stay _with _me?" America asked in a small voice.

"Of course, of course I will," England said gently. "Come, let us retur-"

"Angleterre." France interrupted gravely, touching England's shoulder. "_Everything _will change."

Still embracing America, England looked at France.

"Wh… what do you-?"

"I am afraid that you must leave tonight with your governor and your army," Washington cut in. "British presence, as agreed by both parties, is no longer required here. Governor Gage was quite happy to sign an agreement drawn up by Mr Jefferson."

"But… but that is…" England clutched America tighter still. "I-I understand completely that there is no need for further political presence on my part but… you cannot simply _banish _me-"

"Your king would prefer it if you were to return to the mainland," Washington said shortly, "and that besides, we cannot have you underfoot as we unpick every thread of British legislation and sew it anew with that of France."

"But France is my ally!" England cried frustratedly, looking at France himself. "It matters not!"

Washington shook his head.

"We must have a clean slate," he said. "I cannot allow you to stay here, mollycoddling the boy as you have been doing." He looked at America, who, white-faced, was clinging desperately to England. "See, he grows as pale as a sheet at the mere mention of being taken from you. If we are to become our own nation, he _must _learn to be without you, to make his own decisions - and the sooner the better."

"No-one can teach him that better than I!" England argued, feeling America bury his face in his shoulder.

"That is unacceptable, given that the British government has cast us off," Jefferson said tersely, siding his horse with Washington's. "You can no longer be his teacher."

"That decision had nothing to do with me!" England said hotly, looking to Jefferson. "I was against it - _you _of all people bloody well _know _I was!"

"Yes, we do know that you are constantly locking horns with your government." Washington's voice was level as he headed Jefferson off. "The English Civil War, not to mention the ugly business which put you in disgrace all those years ago - and now this. We _cannot _have you teaching America such things, England. If we are to be a strong nation, we and America must work together to come to a democratic decision. It would seem that _you _know nothing of that."

"We are strong-headed in Europe," France said smoothly, sensing the danger; he touched England's cheek. "Angleterre, I beg you, this is for the best. Leave Amerique with us. You have my word that he will be cared for." France reached then for America's elbow, tugging at him. "Amerique, come now. You will stay with General Washington - he will look after you."

"No!" America fiercely pulled away, clinging to England. "I will not go! I want to stay with England…" He took a breath, seeming to hesitate. "…E-even if I must go to the mainland-"

"America, pray do not be absurd," Jefferson interrupted. "You belong here with us - we are your people. Now please, you simply _must _come."

"You promised that you would not leave me at their mercy!" America said desperately, seizing at England's arms. "You _promised_!"

"And so I will not," England replied in a low voice, his lips against America's forehead.

"I think our mercy kinder than England's," Jefferson retorted. "This you must know, America - you have seen it yourself."

America said nothing but still he clung grim-death to England - England embracing him tightly in return.

"Really now, enough of this," Washington said impatiently. "We have a rebellion to quell." He looked to the British Army captain, giving a sharp nod. "Please take England on board that we may proceed."

The captain nodded and beckoned to three soldiers, who broke formation to seize upon England and begin to forcibly part him from America.

"Please," England said hoarsely, clinging to the teenager as tightly as he could. "Please do not take him from me!"

But there was no respite: even France helped in a gentle manner, taking America under his arms to restrain him as he fought the separation.

"No!" America screeched. "Let go!" He dug in his heels and flailed angrily, desperately, as he was pried from England's hold. "_England!_"

England lurched forward against the soldiers holding him, dragging them with him as he reached and grasped America's hand.

"I have you," he breathed, their fingers interlocking. "I have you."

"Angleterre!" France burst out. "Enough is _enough_! Do as you are ordered!"

The British soldiers heaved at the same moment France did and they were wrenched apart once more. America thrashed in France's grasp as two French soldiers came to help hold him back.

"_England!_" he wailed again beseechingly.

"Please," England hissed again; he looked to France, who met his gaze briefly before casting his heavy eyes aside. "He's my only treasure, _please_…"

"Take him on board," the captain ordered crisply. "I think it would be best to put him in the hold."

It took four soldiers to start moving England, for he resisted them with every scrap of his strength, his boots uprooting Boston's earth as they dragged him towards the gangplank. America too fought against his French captives, almost breaking loose by slamming his elbow into the chest of one of the soldiers - but France kept his grasp on him long enough for Washington to come forward, steadying his impressive white horse before the teenager. America struggled a bit more as he was bodily lifted by France but seemed to give up when Washington pulled him into the saddle with him, limp and defeated.

He met England's gaze, however, his blue eyes big and helpless as Washington turned his horse and started back down the dock.

"_I won't let you take him!_" England burst out, throwing forward once more with every ounce of resolve his had in his body; he would cut Washington's horse out from under him if that was what it took-

The bayonet went into him through his ribcage, jarring against the bone and plunging through his lung. England faltered, stumbling against the blade; the soldier pulled it back and England crumpled, blood rising at the back of his throat. The captain gave a quick motion with his hand and the soldiers heaved again, having a much easier time of hauling England up the gangplank. They got him onto the deck of the ship as he buckled and coughed up a mouthful of blood onto the salt-washed boards; his vision buzzed, flickered, and the roar of the angry crowd seared. He strained for America, to hear him, to see him covetously clutched by General Washington as he rode away, but he was lost to him, they were dragged further and further apart by humans and what suited them.

He couldn't breathe on the right, his chest bucking on the blood filling his lung, and the whole right side of his body numbed and dragged.

"Lift him," one of the soldiers said, the voice floating and a long way overhead, it seemed. "You two carry him. Hurry!"

Oh, but these humans were sly bastards. They knew that nations were immortal - or, at least, that if they obtained mortal wounds, they would die from them only so that their body could throw itself wholeheartedly into healing. England was dying, of course - which was what they wanted. He would revive, unscathed, long after they had pulled away from port.

He twisted fiercely as he was lifted, kicking blindly so that they dropped him; he hit the swaying boards with a hard _smack _and began to weakly push himself up, readying his body to make a blind break for it even as the blood dribbled over his chin.

"Enough, England," the lead soldier said, the cool muzzle of the musket pressing to the back of his skull. "America is no longer ours."

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Immortality in nations was relative to the thriving of their home soil; their systems were supported by their land, hence their revival, as long as they still had a country to call their own, was inevitable and unavoidable.

England had first woken in the deepest part of the hold, a room lined with barrels and little else. The door had been bolted shut and, for all his throwing himself at it, pulling and banging and kicking, it had remained that way. His threats and tantrums and pleading had gone either unheard or ignored.

The hours had passed and no-one had come down to him. England had assumed, perhaps naively, that they would not leave him to starve; but likely they knew all too well he would kill whoever came near him in a bid for freedom. They had sent no-one, not even with water, and the hours had dragged on and on, creeping rat-like over the wooden walls of the ship's belly. Likely a day had passed, then two, perhaps even three.

They _had _left him to starve, knowing full well that he could not die; left without food and water, the bodies of nations rode out the terrible pangs for sustenance for as long as a human could before they shut down and entered an unconscious state supported by their land.

Too weak to even sit up, England at last banished all thoughts of diving overboard and swimming back to Boston (thinking even if he drowned, he would at least be washed ashore to revive), of storming Washington's house and taking America back. America had been taken from him, and though he trusted France, he did not trust those men, the ones who would undoubtedly become America's new government. They cared for themselves, for the colonists, and America was so young, so weak and impressionable. They would break him - for they did not love him as England did. This situation had gotten desperate and England knew (as the humans killed him to keep him quiet) that he would have to play by their rules now if he wanted America back.

He would have to beg.

* * *

The familiar crumble of soil was in his hand when he woke again, the way of waking nations in their sleeping state; his hand flexed and the earth - London, likely, he could tell by its grittiness - broke on the bed sheets. England opened his eyes to a wood-beam ceiling he had seen before, as had many other prisoners of the Tower of London.

"This is a joke," he said faintly, threading his fingers together on the silk covers.

"I am afraid not," his king, George III of England, replied sagely. He withdrew his hand, with which he had put the soil into England's, and sat back in his plush chair at the bedside. "I fear I have seen fit to keep you here, England."

England sighed, closing his eyes again and settling into the pillow. He was weak, and would be until he ate and drank and slept properly, his body accustoming itself to the pursuit of human existence once more.

"And what, pray tell, is my crime _this _time?" he asked coldly.

"Conspiracy with the American colonists Misters Jefferson and Adams and Dr Franklin to go against my wishes," the king said. "It is almost treason."

England snorted.

"Do not be ridiculous," he said icily. "Cromwell tried to accuse me of that as well. It was ludicrous enough that he accused a king of treason. To accuse _me _of it is absolute _madness_, he and you both, you German tosser."

"England, I do not care _at all _for the way you speak to me," George said delicately. "Which brings me to my next point: it appears that you are terribly ill-at-ease with humans, at least those who do not agree with you. You killed two upon your final day in Boston - a colonist and Magistrate William Mulbury, dispatched upon my orders."

"I was protecting America," England sighed impatiently; he opened one eye briefly to steal a glance at George III. The king didn't look all that much different from the colonists, with his powdered hair and straight, sharp nose. Their gazes met and England looked away again, exhaling tiredly. "…Is that so difficult for you to understand? It is a human sort of love, after all."

"Were you human," George replied shortly, "I would have you hanged."

"Not beheaded?" England smirked. "I am offended, Your Majesty. I would expect a swordsman at the very least."

"This amuses you, I see," the king said sagely. "Well, I do not think you will be so amused when I inform you that you are no longer allowed to leave the confines of the Tower of London."

England opened his eyes again, turning his head on the pillow to look sharply at George III once more.

"I apologise," he said frostily, "but what was that, Your Majesty?"

"I think you heard me well enough," George replied, his voice terribly calm. "You have proven yourself unfit to be allowed amidst humans - in addition to abusing your freedom in all manners. I do not feel that I may trust you to act as my representative any longer, and besides which, I know perfectly well that you will flee straight back to the colonies if I do not restrain you. The decision to leave the American colonies to France, which will in turn facilitate their independence, was agreed upon and you deliberately sought to undermine it." He shook his head. "No indeed, you are untrustworthy and damaging to me and to our reputation. You must accept the consequences of what you have done and remain under permanent house arrest here in the Tower. There is no other option."

England at last sat up, though he was so weak that it was a real struggle to do so. His king put a hand to his shoulder to steady him, though England angrily shrugged him off.

"I would like to see you keep me here," he said in a low voice.

George shrugged.

"You have been kept here before," he replied. "In the Beauchamp Tower - in worse conditions, too, or so I have read."

"And how would you propose you best my previous captivity, Your Majesty?" England asked icily. "Aside from imprisoning me in the better-furnished and more comfortable Queen's House, that is."

"You are not a prisoner," George pressed. "As before, you will consider this to be house-arrest. You will be well provided-for - servants and the run of the house completely; books and whatever else you may want, only say the word and you shall have it; and you may leave the house as you please, of course. The rest of the Tower grounds are yours to wander."

"How very generous." England looked towards the window. "And how long, dare I ask, until my spell is through?"

"That is not worth asking," George replied gravely. "I have decreed it officially and legally that you are to remain here for the rest of your life. You may think it unfair but you have been given two chances to prove yourself worthy of the freedom you have been granted in the past and twice you have behaved ruinously. If this is the only way we can control you then so be it."

The king rose from his chair, seeming to imply that the conversation was over. In desperation England seized at his arm, clamping hold of it.

"Rethink this, I beg of you," he said, looking up at his king. "I accept that I have behaved poorly in some ways but this… _this _is not necessary, I quite assure you!"

"It would seem that it is," George replied coolly, plucking England off his arm. "I cannot have your selfish whims getting underfoot a moment longer. There is more to running a country than letting your national personification do as he pleases, as strange as that may sound to you. You may regard yourself removed from we humans, England, but your actions affect your people. As your king, it is my duty to control you, and this I shall do even at the expense of your approval."

He turned away. England fumbled with the bedclothes, throwing the sheets aside to try and scramble after the king; his feet touched the floor and he crumpled, his legs giving out from weeks lying motionless, breathing through the thrum of his landscape. He pushed himself up on his hands, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, as George looked down at him again.

"America," England insisted, growing very panicked. "Please, h-he is all I want…! Give them the land, give them whatever else you would cast off, but America, they will not look after him properly. Bring him here, let me have him, and I will stay without a word of complaint!"

George III simply gave a shake of his head.

"England," he said gravely, "you know perfectly well that I cannot do that. The boy must stay where he belongs - as must you."

"Then-_please_, you… you cannot just-!"

"You must understand that there is more at stake here than your wish to tuck your brat in at night," the king cut in shortly. "You have seen the last of America. Rest assured that he is in good hands with France, at least."

"May… he not even visit?" England asked in a small voice.

"Oh, do not feign ignorance. You know perfectly well that he is forbidden from ever setting foot here. His Majesty King James I decreed this himself."

"But I-"

"One of the servants will be along shortly with a meal and some clothes," the king cut in, going to the door. "You will eat and dress and then you may spend your time as you will." He shot England an exceedingly sharp look. "But know that if you harm a single hair upon her head, you _will _be dealt with accordingly. Do not think you can escape here by brute force. I know well your ways by now." He gave England a nod and opened the door. "You have a letter, by the way. Good day."

The king left, pulling the heavy door behind him. England hauled himself back onto the bed, leaning back against the wall and wiping at his face; his eyes were gritty from the weeks asleep, damp from the human weakness of tears. For the first time in a very long time he felt utterly and completely defeated by these conniving little bastards. He had tried so _so _hard to keep America with him - even an annual visit would have sufficed in the face of never being allowed to see him again. And now he had nothing, not even his freedom.

They should have run. They should have fled long before the riots began; upon finding America pregnant, England should have taken him and hidden. He had been foolish and naïve to have expected this to end happily. They could have lived undetected in the wilderness of America's untamed lands, away from the prying of the humans, they and the infant America had instead felt the need to drown. He did not blame America for this, really - he would not have done, it, he knew, if not for the humans. On his own merit, America was not so dreadful.

He should not have heeded France for as long as he had. Humans played cruel games and England should never have waited to see the hand they dealt him.

With nothing else to do but wait for his meal (and he might kill the girl anyway just to spite George), he looked over to the bedside to see the letter the king had spoken of. It was a thick parchment envelope, heavy, and England recognised his name in France's delicate cursive upon the face. He opened it, curling against the head of the bed; in blue ink and their original tongue, the Medieval marriage of Old French and Old English, it went thus:

_My dearest angel, my lovely Angleterre,_

_When you read this, I am certain you will be in some despair. I know not what awaits you upon your home shores but the humans have treated you unkindly before and so I would expect no different now, given that you have displeased them once again. I do hope, therefore, that this letter finds you in at least good physical health. Were I only there to hold you when you most need it; alas, my duty binds me and I must ask you to be brave, my little one._

_As to the matter of Amerique, I would urge you again to put all sickness out of your heart. He is being well cared for by President (this is the title we chose) Washington and his other mentors. He misses you greatly but you will be glad to know, I am sure, that he is faring well nonetheless and doing wonderfully in his learning. I am sure he will be a splendid nation one day and I assure you that I shall do my best to guide him when he needs it._

_You must know that I love you and that my thoughts are ever with you. You have been made to do a very difficult thing. I do understand, my darling. _

_I know how much it hurts._

_All my love,_

_France_

* * *

Yaaaaay, at long last! Finally we can move on… when I get the time to get back to this fic again, lololol~

Because yeah, this is not over. Nowhere _near_. T.T

Thematically and also physically (in the manner of things actually happening in the narrative), this segment was very challenging to write, as I said. I got writer's block on it a few times, where I just sat staring at the screen like nuuuuuu what now WHAT NOW?1111!1 I wanted it to have a realistic sense of lapsing time and, with it, the right sort of emotional reaction. I don't think I'm able to step back from it enough myself to assess how well I did at that, haha, but I really tried. I didn't want it to seem rushed but also didn't want to drag it out, you know? Sooooo I hope people liked it! It was my best effort!

The next segment, which will address the questions raised here, moves up to the Victorian period and from there drifts into WWI. Hope that piques some peoples' interest, at least~

Thank you all for your patience!

RR xXx

**Places to visit (if you are in the area): **

**The Old State House **is referred to in this as the Massachusetts Town House, which is the name it would have been known by at the time. You can still visit the Old State House right in the heart of Boston - I believe it is a little museum, or at least that's what I gather from the official website. It's a stop on the historical Freedom Trail as it is the site of the Boston Massacre - and is in fact visible in the famous woodcut by Paul Revere of the massacre (the tall building in the middle). It still has the British lion and unicorn on the roof from all those years ago!

**The Queen's House**… actually, you can't go in here if you visit the Tower of London. It's one of the only buildings there off-limits to the public; however, you can see it next to the Beauchamp Tower on Tower Green (the site of many famous beheadings, such as that of Anne Boleyn). The Queen's House is named so because English queens Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard stayed here before their executions and Princess Elizabeth, who later became Elizabeth I, was imprisoned here on the order of her sister, Mary I. Guy Fawkes was also imprisoned here! I have no idea what it looks like on the inside but the outside is very beautiful and very different from the rest of the buildings at the Tower!


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